


Wizardtober: Being a Daily Collection of Hankcon Wizard AUs (in October)

by bibliomaniac



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Wizards, Ficlet Collection, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2021-01-12 22:22:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 19,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21233516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bibliomaniac/pseuds/bibliomaniac
Summary: it's what it sounds like: a bunch of wizard hankcon aus, all originally written on twitter and transferred here. each chapter is a different day i wrote slash a different au





	1. October 5th: In Which Connor Is A Sex Wizard

**Author's Note:**

> i was bemoaning the smallish number of fantasy aus in hankcon, especially of the wizard variety, and then i did a wizard au and then i decided to do a wizard au every day (most days at least) in october. hence, the birth of wizardtober. almost like magic, except not at all
> 
> i think i probably won't post all of them; i didn't start writing full story threads until a bit in so the first days are pretty short and informal. the link for the moment compiling everything i wrote is at the end story notes so if you're really jonesing for more Hot Wizard Contente then you can find it there lol. be warned: it's not actually hot
> 
> NOTE: this first chapter is one of the shorter ones and was not fully story-ready, but i tried to revise a little bit to make it not quite so twitter-y. cws include talk about sex (nothing explicit), teasing

“What the fuck," Hank asks reasonably, “is a sex wizard?"  
  
"I help people with sex," the unreasonably hot twink chirps. “Potions, enchanted devices, the like."  
  
“Right," Hank says, suddenly wanting to be not here.  
  
“Though sometimes I'm willing to be more hands on," Connor says, winking.  
  
“Cool," Hank says, definitely wanting to be not here even more now, he thinks? “Well that isn't exactly..."

“Exactly what?"  
  
“Uh, what. I was looking for. When I saw your ad said that you had magic hands..."  
  
“Yes?"  
  
“Well I was thinking like. Massage? And there was a coupon and I—fuck. Sorry. Can I just leave?"  
  
“Well that would be unfortunate," Connor says, blinking winsomely. “Given you have a coupon and all."  
  
They stare at each other.  
  
“Well I'm not going to—solicit—" Hank clears his throat, going red. "I'm not, I don't, uh. Need. Help with—"  
  
"I can do a massage, Mr. Anderson, is what I mean."  
  
“Oh." Hank shifts under Connor's intent gaze. “And no sex? Or sex magic?"  
  
Connor looks like he's trying to keep from laughing, mostly unsuccessfully. “Not unless you ask, sir."  
  
“Well I'm not gonna fucking ask—" Connor very unsuccessfully keeps from laughing by laughing loudly. “Gotcha. So. Massage. Please."

“One sexless massage coming right up." Connor winks again and summons a table out of nowhere. “Strip."  
  
It's a massage, so Hank doesn't need to blush about that, but he's done a lot of shit he doesn't need today, he guesses. “Right. Can you like. Turn around?"

“Boo," Connor whispers with what Hank thinks is fake dejection, but he does so.  
  
It turns out Connor does give a great massage. And Hank, well, gets tangled up a lot. So he keeps coming back, even if Connor is fucking incorrigible with the innuendoes and shit. And Hank doesn't think he's wrong when he thinks that Connor is giving him, uh. Special treatment? Like, actually wants—  
  
“Can I have.” He coughs awkwardly into his sleeve. “Today, like—only if you want. Can I have the usual but, um. With—with, uh—"

“Incense?" Connor asks curiously at the same time as Hank blurts out, “Sex?"  
  
They stare at each other again, Hank going beet red, Connor's smile firmly heading towards the realm of cheshire.  
  
“Why, Mr. Anderson," Connor purrs. "I've been hoping you'd ask."

Anyway: Hank gets hooked up with a horny and very talented sex wizard, Connor delights in finding new ways to make him blush even years after, when they're married and Connor has tried out many a method to evoke that response. For science. Or magic. Or maybe just him.


	2. October 9th: In Which Hank and Connor are Members of Two Feuding Wizard Families

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cws for this chapter: one character (hank) is shunned by his family for not being powerful enough, it's mostly flossed over

Hank is part of one of the most powerful magical families in the United States, but he knows he's a black sheep. A dud, really. His powers aren't that strong, and he's had to focus on other shit to make up for it—on a quick wit, sharp eyes, other kinds of strength. 

He's shunned by most of the other family members (such a disappointment, and with how strong his parents were, too—) and he's pretty much fine with that, given they're all fucking snobs. But he's still expected to show up for special occasions and such sometimes. 

It is at one such occasion, a summit that his grandparents want to make some kind of show of power and numbers at, that he meets Connor, who's a member of their rival family, and also _very_ clearly and unsubtly interested in him. 

The first time Connor sees Hank, hanging off to the sidelines and looking uncomfortable, Connor's lips curl up into a slow smile.  
  
"Well, hello," he purrs, walking closer. "I don't believe we've met."  
  
When he's tried shit like this with other people from their family—mostly just for amusement—he's gotten shock, panic, disgust, and on one memorable occasion, a younger boy shrilling, "Is this allowed?"   
  
(Allowed, but distasteful, according to his parents. Which is of course, on purpose. He enjoys going against what they have a taste for.)

But Hank doesn't do that. He sizes him up and then, with an amused lift of his eyebrow, says, "We haven't."  
  
And that's it.  
  
Connor's own eyebrows furrow thoughtfully before he presses on.

"Your name?"  
  
"I'm presuming you already know the last part of it," the man says. "Otherwise you wouldn't have come over, right?" He huffs through his nose, almost a laugh but not quite. "Listen, kid. I'm all about raising a little hell. But I'm plenty sure you can manage it without me." He pats him on the cheek, twice, dismissive. "Have fun."

His family members are already red in the face just from the fact he interacted. But Connor is eyeing him leave, speculative, and also purposeful.  
  
Most everything Connor does has a purpose.  
  
And while the man does have a glorious ass, the better Connor concentrates now, the better he'll be able to get a handle on the man's magical signature.  
  
"Hank," the man calls out over his shoulder, and their eyes meet for a fraction. "It'll be easier than whatever shit you're concocting over there." Connor has his senses tuned in, so he also hears Hank snort. "Trying to, anyway."  
  
Well _that_ sounds like a challenge. Connor licks his lips, thoroughly interested and at least a little bit turned on.  
  
He loves a challenge, and if he manages to piss off his family in the process of being challenged? Well, that's even better. The papa bear over there only sweetens the pot.  
  
(Hank, meanwhile, is wondering why he gave his name. It'd keep the kid off his scent at least a little while longer if he didn't have it.  
  
Oh, well. These summits are always boring as shit anyway. Maybe this will at least be entertaining.)


	3. October 11th: In Which Commoner Connor asks Wizard Hank for a Favour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for this chapter: i don't know if mayfly-december romances count but...other than that not much, i think

"Good wizard," Connor calls out, back straight as is only proper Quest Manners and tone formal as is required when speaking to a Most High and Mighty Wizarde, "I ask thee to grant me entrance to thy lair, that we might discuss a Favour."

There's a long silence. Suspiciously long. Connor is patient, but not much.  
  
"Good wizard," he tries again, "I hath seen thy curtain ripple from within, and am certain that you were the cause."  
  
"God fucking dammit," the Most High and Mighty Wizarde grumbles. "I thought I'd be rid of you types once I implemented additional security measures. Did you find a way around the—"  
  
"Puzzle gate? I solved it. It was fairly simple."  
  
There's a thoughtful pause. "Huh. Really? I thought—well, I wasn't even talking about that. I was gonna say the venom wolves."  
  
Connor smiles serenely at the door. The wizard still has not shown himself yet, after all. "They were just hungry. I could not fault them their snapping."  
  
"They were supposed to incapacitate you," the wizard says, mildly interested. "Not just snap. And then you'd be collected by the gnomes for public shaming."  
  
"I met the gnomes also," Connor responds, examining his fingernails. "They enjoy card games, as it turns out."  
  
He hears a snort from inside again. "Right. ‘Course they do." Finally the door opens, and there the wizard stands, leaning against the doorframe. "All right, kid."  
  
"I'm not a child, sir," Connor feels the need to clarify. "I'm thirty-one."  
  
"And I'm one thousand and fifty," the wizard says, raising an eyebrow.

Connor flushes. "Right. Continue."  
  
"Thanks for the permission." the wizard rolls his eyes. "I guess you got all the way here. So what 'favour' do you want?"  
  
Connor brightens, standing up quest-manners-straight once more. "Oh. Right!" he clears his throat. "O Great Wizard Hankin, mighty sorcerer of these five allied lands, power of the North—"  
  
"Fucking hell," the wizard murmurs irritably.  
  
"—and light of the New Dawn—"  
  
"Can you fucking get on with it?"  
  
Connor pauses, coughing. "Yes. Well. What I was going to ask is, well. Would you allow me to court you?"  
  
The Great Wizard Hankin, mighty sorcerer of the blah blah blah—Hank to friends, not that he has many—chokes on air. "What?"  
  
"Well," Connor says, squirming in place, "You see, I'm no great knight." Hank continues staring at him. "I know I don't have much to offer. But I've read about your great deeds since I was a boy, and I help out my brother at his shop—you probably don't see me often, I grow the plants, he does all the selling—"  
  
Hank squints. Now that he looks, he does seem familiar.

"And I've been watching you, not in a creepy way, well, maybe you think it's creepy but I promise I've just always thought you were so interesting even under those glamours you wear that make you look different but I figured it out and—"

"Breathe."  
  
Connor takes a deep breath and keeps going. "And you have this wonderful smile and I even heard you laugh once and I was in a daze for the next week and I'd just really like to get to know you better, you're of course under no obligation but—"

Hank holds up his hand, and Connor immediately falls silent, blush evident on his cheeks and the tips of his ears.  
  
"So you're asking me to—to go out on a date?"  
  
"Yes," Connor says.  
  
"With you."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Why?"  
  
Connor's eyebrows do something adorable. "I had thought I just said, sir, in rather more detail than I intended."  
  
Hank takes a deep breath, staring over the kid. He's...cute, sure, standing there all hopeful in ill-fitting armor and his rucksack. And smart, clearly, if he got past the gate. And a thousand years get boring quick.  
  
Hank rubs his temples. "I—yeah. Sure. One date."  
  
Connor brightens immediately, standing back up straight.  
  
"I will send you a message with the time."  
  
"Within the next two weeks, please," Connor says sweetly, and Hank narrows his eyes. Drat. Maybe he's too sharp. Hank might've been thinking of setting it a hundred years from now.

"Yeah, sure."  
  
"You won't regret it!"  
  
"Sure I won't." Hank looks away. "Now scarper. I have shit to do."  
  
"Oh, I imagine," Connor says with a wink, and then he's gone. Hank stays staring at where he stood, still leaning against the door, for a long while longer.  
  
"Thousand fucking years and I'm still a sucker for a pretty face." He sniffs, turning back around. "Ugh. UGH." With this said, the Most High and Mighty Wizarde slams the door and stomps over his bed to take an Early Afternoone Nappe.  
  
(Connor, on the other hand, has a skip in his step all the way home.  
  
He has plans. Oh, does he have plans.  
  
But even more importantly: he has a date.)


	4. October 12th: In Which Hank Needs Help Getting Out of a Fairytale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cws for this chapter: i don't believe there are any--light references to a past troubling event, maybe

Hank hadn't _wanted_ to ask for help. He's been independent since he was a kid, for fuck's sake, lived on his own for almost as long, and he hates involving other people in his bullshit. He put this off for as long as he could hoping he could get himself out. But it's time for him to admit that he can't, as much as it pisses him off.

Everybody knows what the magician in the quaint little shop _really_ does. It's the city's worst kept secret. Or one of them, anyway. The city doesn't keep secrets well. Part of the reason he'd left. He heads there in the evening, because he's making a concession but he refuses to let the busybodies in the street gossip about him if he can help it, and pounds on the door.  
  
"We're closed, darling," an airy voice from inside comes, “You can come back tomorrow after seven—"

"I need help now," he says on a growl that he doesn't really intend. "I'm sorry, I just—I can't—"  
  
The sigh is just as loud as the admonition, but the door opens. The boy looks him over, surprisingly calm, and nods. “Yes, I suppose you do, don't you. Come in, mind the frame." Hank comes in, minding the frame as best he can—he's gotten quite a bit taller, recently—and looks around the shop. He's never been here, for all he's heard rumors. It's...nice. Cozy. There's a cheerful little fire in the fireplace in the corner, and several chairs. He won't try to fit into any of them.  
  
“So," the boy says, clapping his hands. “What can I do for you?"  
  
Hank is at a loss, staring downwards. “Well..."  
  
“Maybe I should reword. Why are you here?"  
  
Hank thinks it should be obvious, but he bites his tongue and tries anyway. "I heard...you help." when he looks up, the boy is smiling encouragingly. “With, uh. Issues of a...of a, uh, delicate...fanciful..."  
  
"I help individuals who have found themselves in a fairytale against their wishes," the boy fills in smoothly, tilting his head. His legs cross delicately at the knee. It's charming. Hank isn't really here for charming at the moment. "Connor, by the way."  
  
“Huh?"  
  
“My name. Yours?"  
  
"...Hank."  
  
“Right. Do continue."  
  
Hank nods jerkily. “Well...I think...I'm. That."  
  
“You're what?"

God, this kid is more of a sadist than he'd thought. He scowls as best as he can. "I think I'm in a fairytale."  
  
“Okay," Connor says encouragingly. “Why do you think that?"  
  
He stares at him incredulously. Connor waves his hand anyway.  
  
“Because—fuck.” He huffs out air. “Some old lady wanted to stay the night. I don't...let strangers in my house. Anymore.” His lips would purse, if they could. "I guess she was a witch, or something, because she told me, uh. That I'd be like this until I learned to open my heart. Or some shit.” He remembers what she said, word for word, but it's flowery and irritating and he doesn't want to repeat it.  
  
“And then?"  
  
Hank stares at Connor, irritated. "I think you can tell."  
  
"I'd like to hear it," he says sweetly.  
  
Hank murmurs something uncharitable under his breath. “Ugh. Fine. Fine—she turned me into a fucking bear, okay?"  
  
Connor's smile widens, and he straightens in his chair. “There you go, love. Honesty is always the best policy if we're to remove a curse, yes?"  
  
Hank's mouth tries to shape around the word 'love', incredulous. "I just didn't think you needed any help, seeing as how I'm a bear."  
  
Connor shrugs elegantly. “Maybe you were a regular bear and she gave you the power of human speech. I wouldn't know."  
  
Yes he fucking would. His would-be savior is clearly just a pedantic asshole. “Well. I think we can work with that." Connor smiles again. "I'll meet you at your place of residence tomorrow. At 7.” He takes a sip of something in a cup that appears before him. “Now run along, dear."  
  
“Run along?" Hank spits out.  
  
“Yes. I can't do much until tomorrow.” He's still smiling as he tilts his head. “Say, at 7. When this shop, and my services, open."  
  
“But—"  
  
"I'm tired, Henry. Don't you want me doing my best work?"  
  
He hadn't even told him his full name was Henry. “Yeah, but—"  
  
“So, seven then? Good! Travel safe, sleep well." Hank's mouth hangs open as he's shooed out of the shop as quickly as he was invited in.  
  
“See you tomorrow, darling!" is the last thing he hears before the door is shut.  
  
What the _fuck_.  
  
This kind of shit is why Henry never wants to ask for help. But he doesn't have much of a fucking choice, does he, because these paws don't even work to open doors. So he scowls and heads back the way he came. To his lonely house in the middle of the fucking forest in which he was turned into a FUCKING bear. To wait. On an asshole.

If this really is a fairytale, it fucking sucks.


	5. October 13th: In Which Potions Seller Hank is Enamored By a Mess

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cws for this chapter: brief mention of class bias against people raised by nonmagical individuals

Hank doesn't like mess. His shop is cluttered, sure—he's not sure how he could manage to fit every ingredient a discerning potion brewer would ostensibly need without clutter—but it's not messy. Everything has its place. The entire place is charmed with dust repellants. Dust makes for a shit potion ingredient, and he knows that the hard way.  
  
He doesn't like mess, but he thinks he might like this one.  
  
The man walking in is carrying too many bags for three people in his hands. He has a number of other objects spelled to trail along behind him, bobbing haphazardly, and he has a list in front of him that's dragging on the floor, and he's mumbling to himself and biting his lip as he does, his brow furrowed. His glasses are falling down off his nose. His hair is wavy and everywhere and Hank kind of wishes he could brush a curl of it behind his ear.  
  
He's also the cutest fuckin' thing Hank has seen in a while.  
  
He looks up after a few moments and, as harried as he seems, his smile is still completely genuine, eyes warm. “Hello there! I'm so sorry to bring all this chaos in with me.” He waves vaguely, sending a cascade of bags hitting one another. From somewhere inside it, a bell rings. He winces. Hank is tremendously charmed. "I'm—well, I don't know if you saw that the dojo was vacated—"

The dojo is—well, was—the liveliest place on the Row; it taught nonmagical self defense to young folks and was well loved by the community. Hank had gone there himself, when he was a kid. The gnome running it had finally decided to retire this year, though. “Very unfortunate," Hank says, because it seems like he should say something, at least.  
  
"I know, I know. It really is." The man shakes his head and his curls bob with him. Hank is stricken by the sudden and inappropriate impulse to give him a hug. “But. The property was open. And, well, it's been my dream for years to open a school for—you know how children raised by nonmagical parents can have the hardest time integrating into magical society, there's such a problem with exclusion at all levels and it's terrible, I won't go into it—"

Hank's parents were nonmagical. He definitely knows how it is.  
  
“But there's this big open space left by the dojo and I had the funds so I figured, why not go for it! And so. Well. I'm so sorry, you didn't need the backstory, but I do have a number of things I need.” He pauses, unnecessarily. His face screws up before he clarifies. “For potions. Not from you. I mean, from you, because you run the shop, but—I'll stop."  
  
Hank is halfway in love already. He's pretty sure he hasn't stopped smiling this whole time. The guy is a disaster. He likes it, though, a lot. “That list got what you need on it?"  
  
“Oh! Yes.” He flicks a finger towards Hank, and it rests on his counter. He scans it; it's all basic stuff, which makes sense.  
  
Hank carefully counts everything out. He could do it with magic, but sometimes magic makes mistakes. He prefers the old-fashioned way. Once everything is parceled and bagged, he rings the man up and then stares thoughtfully at him.  
  
“You're carrying a lot."  
  
The man laughs awkwardly. “Yes. Yes, I am."

"I'll help you.” He steps out from behind the counter, holding the bag of the potions ingredients, and beckons towards one handful of bags.  
  
“Oh! No, I couldn't—"  
  
“The dojo is close enough, and some of these ingredients aren't completely safe to be levitated."

That's technically an exaggeration. It's true, but the risk is very low. He thinks the man might know that, by how he looks back at him.  
  
“Well. That's very kind...?"  
  
"Hank."  
  
"Connor." Connor flashes him a beautiful smile and passes him half of the bags. "I suppose it's good to get to know my neighbors anyway. On the Row, I mean."  
  
“Right." Hank shifts the bags in his grip. He's pretty sure Lucina, from the curios shop across the way, is laughing at him. Just see if he discounts her alicorn hair next time she comes by.

(He will, because Lucina is a sweetheart, and pats his cheek when she comes in and says that she heard Emery from the bookstore heard Connor call him 'enchanting'.  
  
Enchanting.  
  
He smiles the whole hour after, at least until he finds a mixup in inventory, which he has to fix right away.  
  
After all, he hates messes.  
  
...bar one.)


	6. October 14th: In Which Hank Is Troubled by Sorcerers (One In Particular)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cws for this chapter: mentions of sorcerer bias against nonmagical individuals, some brief self negativity

It's not exactly that Hank hates sorcerers. Or. Well, he does. Holier-than-thou bastards, think they're better than everybody even though technology has caught up with most of what the run-of-the-mill sorcerer can do these days.

But that's not it exactly. It's that Connor swept into his life all smiles and baked goods without even a thought for how he might disrupt the life Hank already had, or what little of it was left. It's that Hank tries not opening his door and then he finds little presents outside of it, apologizing. Not that Connor did anything wrong. ...except for being a sorcerer.  
  
God. Hank really is a dick. And Connor can be clueless sometimes, because he was raised in an exclusionary family that tried to keep 'mundane' influence from 'corrupting' the children. Also maybe just because he can be thoughtless, sometimes. Like, sitting on Hank's couch when he comes home cheerfully proclaiming that he's there because he missed him even though the door was definitely locked, because locks don't mean much in sorcerer society. Just. A dumbass.

And Hank's a dumbass too, he guesses, because he keeps letting him back in, in the end. Connor just always looks so relieved, and Hank is just...weak.  
  
So it's not exactly that he hates sorcerers, even though he does. It's that he hates knowing that his convictions are never strong enough to hold up against someone like Connor. And that Connor tried in the first place, when there was never really much to try for.  
  
"I'm sorry," Connor says, looking chagrined. "I thought—Well, I thought you were aware I had been courting you, and you looked so—I should have asked for permission, still."  
  
“Courting," Hank says with a snort, and looks down.  
  
He hates that he didn't kiss Connor back, just now, and that he's the reason Connor looks like this. “No. I knew."  
  
He might have googled the customs, once or twice.  
  
“So..." Connor draws back, face shuttering. “Oh. I'm so sorry."  
  
“No," Hank says automatically, reaching out, touching Connor's hands. "I just...Connor, you don't want me."

Connor blinks at him, guileless, and says, "I thought that was for me to decide.” He makes it sound simple. For him, it probably is.  
  
Hank wishes he knew how to do simple, but for now, at least, he can pretend he does. "...Yeah."  
  
When he kisses Connor, properly this time, when they draw back and Connor stares into his eyes with a dazed kind of blush on his cheeks, he looks down to find flowers blooming from the crack in between his couch cushions.  
  
“Oh," Connor says, looking down also and flushing a deeper red. “Shit. I'm so sorry."

Hank decides he's had enough of apologies tonight, and says “It's fine," and kisses Connor again.  
  
More flowers bloom, one winking charmingly from his pants pocket. It's the fucking stupidest thing that's ever happened to him, and also kind of the best, and he decides also in that moment that if being with Connor means being with a sorcerer, it's probably worth it.  
  
Maybe, with time, he'll even grow to like it.  
  
(It only takes his houseplants being hung with stuffed Sumos and fairy lights to admit that he probably already does.)


	7. October 18th: In Which Hank Has Forgotten To Tell His Boyfriend He's a Wizard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cws for this chapter: brief mention of past classist behavior between wizards and humans; innuendo and fade to black sex

Hank isn't really sure how he's gotten two months into dating Connor without disclosing that he's a wizard.

Or. Well, he knows—because it's not taboo, or anything, but he's not really proud of it either. Wizards have a shitty past. Especially when it comes to humans. And Hank is a shitty wizard so he doesn't go in for that kind of elitism and things have been changing anyway—slowly, like they always do when it comes to wizard society, but changing—but still. Most people who know him don't know. And it's become second nature to him, suppressing it, finding ways to explain away the shit that happens when his magic leaks out, or when things are a bit too convenient for him, or whatever. He just doesn't talk about it.  
  
Connor's different. He's supposed to be different. He's his boyfriend, and he's the sweetest goddamn thing in the universe even if he's a little shit sometimes, and Hank can see a future with him, he _wants_ a future with him, and—so he knows why he didn't tell him at first. But he wants him to know now. It's just really hard for him to say, and he's scared, because what if he fucks this up somehow? What if Connor is mad at him for not telling him, or what if he hates wizards, or—fuck, he doesn't want to fuck this up. Connor is too important. And Hank is too good at fucking up. He always does.  
  
As it happens, he does fuck it up this time. Just not how he expected. Like so:  
  
Hank is giving Connor a massage. Not even a naked hanky panky type massage, though he can tell Connor would like it to go there by how he's moaning all pornlike. Connor is many things, but subtle isn't even in his dictionary, at least when it comes to sex with Hank.  
  
Anyway, the massage isn't inherently sexual; Connor had had a hard day at work and Hank wants to be a good boyfriend so he offers to try relaxing his back. Connor offers to try throwing out Hank's. Hank rolls his eyes even though he's smiling and says he does have to work tomorrow, as appealing as back injury sounds.  
  
But. Yeah. Massage. Connor's hamming it up, at least in part, and Hank is getting it up, because unfortunately ham or no his boyfriend is unfairly attractive and Hank is very weak. He flicks Connor lightly on the chin and Connor turns back to grin at him as he lets out the loudest moan of all, because he's an asshole.  
  
“Oh, Hank, your hands are magic."

On some level, maybe Hank realizes Connor is still playing the part of some poorly scripted adult star, but on every other level, he freezes, magic hands falling to his sides as he scrambles to put together how Connor found out. He's a shitty wizard, as mentioned, so sometimes his magic leaks out a little bit. Not much, but—

He gulps, eyes wide. "I—you know?"  
  
Connor's grin falls, and he cranes his neck even further before huffing and turning around on the couch to face Hank. “Know what?"  
  
“My hands are magic, you said—"

"Hank, what's going on—"  
  
“You know I'm a wizard?"  
  
Connor blinks at him, eyes also wide.  
  
“Yeah, of course I do."  
  
Hank scrambles backwards, breathing coming harder. "I—you—how did you—"  
  
“Was that...Hank, was that a secret? I didn't—"

"I never _told_ you, I—" Hank gulps in air. "I don't—"  
  
"Hank. Breathe. Come on." Connor reaches out to Hank's hands, places them over his heart until he feels the beating. He hadn’t even realized he had stopped until then, and slowly he takes in one deep breath, two, three. "I've known you were a wizard since the day we met. I'm sorry. I didn't realize you wanted to hide it."  
  
Hank purses his lips, looking away, still taking deep breaths, before he answers. "I didn't. I don't, just—I don't talk about it. I never have."

“And I thought you didn't know, and I wasn't sure how you were going to take it, if you'd be mad..."  
  
“Mad?" Connor sounds so confused that Hank looks back at him. "Hank...why would I be mad?"  
  
“Well, because I didn't tell you. And a lot of people don't like wizards."

Connor stares at him, completely bemused, and says, "Hank, you know I'm a wizard too, right?"  
  
Now it's Hank's turn to blink at him confusedly. “What?"  
  
"I—I've conjured in front of you before—"  
  
Hank thought he just had really deep pockets.

“And I kept talking about new spells I was learning..."  
  
Hank thought he was really involved in some kind of online RPG.  
  
...now that he thinks about it, he's kind of an idiot, huh.  
  
“Oh," he says, like an idiot.  
  
"I guess that explains some things," Connor murmurs. "I wondered why you were so cagey about your spellcasting."  
  
Hank hangs his head, sighing. “So I fucked this up, huh?"  
  
“What? Of course not." Connor pulls him closer, drops a kiss on the part of his hair. “It's just another thing we share. Another conversation topic, now that we can talk about it with the truth out in the open."

Hank looks up at him and he's smiling, soft and sweet and god Hank loves him.  
  
Hank kisses him and pours all that love right into it. His favorite kind of magic has always just been this. Connor is smiling even sweeter when they part, and Hank tugs at the string of an old memory. “So you said a while back you had learned, uh. What was it, some lower level healing spells?"  
  
“Right. Aches and pains, that sort of thing. I certainly don't specialize in healing, but. I figured out how to manage that much."  
  
“Aches and pains, huh," Hank muses. “So even if I threw out my back we could probably get me in good enough shape to get to work tomorrow, right?"  
  
Connor gets an evil kind of glint in his eye.  
  
"I don't know," he purrs. "I'd _love_ to find out."  
  
“Well, consider me a willing participant in your experiment," Hank says, holding up his hands. "I hear these bad boys are magic."  
  
Connor snorts, but he's smiling. “Cheeseball."  
  
“Hey, use your nice words. I'm sacrificing my back for you."

“Don't worry," Connor says, getting up leisurely and pulling on Hank's hand until he's standing too. “You'll be compensated generously, Mr. Magic Hands."  
  
“Oh, god, please don't call me that," Hank says, following behind Connor with their hands still clasped together.

“Mr. Magic Hank Anderson."  
  
“No."  
  
"...Magic Handerson."  
  
"I'm leaving."  
  
“It's your bedroom!"  
  
“Okay, you leave then!"  
  
“Oh, you don't want that."  
  
Hank points at the bedroom door, spelling it closed with a thump. “No, I don't."  
  
“Good," Connor says. “Also, that was kinda hot." Hank picks up a pillow from the bed to throw at Connor, who deflects it with a pointer finger.  
  
"...you're right," Hank concedes.  
  
(Hank's back hurts a bit the next day. But it's...not bad. He can feel the tingle of Connor's magic there too, buzzing under his skin with his own.)


	8. October 20th: In Which a Toddler Requests Connor for an Aging Potion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cws for this chapter: hank is turned into a toddler and asks connor for an aging potion so he can undo the spell; while still under this spell he tells connor he thinks he is attractive and swears a lot, and connor asks him for a date in the end after the spell is undone. if this sounds like something that would make you uncomfortable this chapter is not for you! also a bit of a gray area about hank consenting to a truth spell

“One aging potion, please,” says the suspiciously short person in the trenchcoat.  
  
Connor blinks placidly at him.  
  
It's not the first time some kid has come into his potions shop requesting an aging potion so they can get past some kind of barrier or into a bar. It probably won't be the last. But he thinks this might be the first time it's been so...blatant.  
  
This kid is. A kid. Like, practically a toddler. There are some magical races that—well, maybe they'd look like this—but they don't just show up to some nobody's shop in Detroit. He has these sweet blond curls and blue eyes and his face is flushed and he looks kind of angry.  
  
“Right," Connor says carefully. “Might I ask your date of birth?"  
  
“Jesus," the toddler says in his high-pitched voice. “Fuck, I knew this would happen." Connor's eyebrows raise a fraction.  
  
“Look—Christ, you're not going to believe me. But I was fucking around with spell transformations, something to do with memory, you don't need to know the details, and there was some unexpected rebound and I got zapped with this.” He gestures to himself. “De-aging. And it's not just one of the appearance ones, either, it's full body even if my mind's intact, and—" The flush on his face grows even more intense. Connor can't tell if he's angry or embarrassed. “My magic didn't come in until I was 6."

“And you're presently..."  
  
“Five.” His face scrunches up adorably. “Because my luck fucking sucks."  
  
Connor keeps staring at him, trying to evaluate a next course of action. He certainly has the...vocabulary of someone older. And even if he's lying…

“Jesus fucking balls, do you have any different facial expressions? It’s like talking with a robot."  
  
Connor smiles, as requested, head tilting to the side. The kid's face gets even redder, and he looks away furtively.  
  
“Would you mind if I performed some simple evaluation spells on you?"

The kid's eyebrows furrow. “Why?"  
  
“Well, I'd like to know if you're telling the truth, for one." Connor comes out from behind the counter, leans against it thoughtfully, and looks down at the kid. He scowls. “And for two, the ingredients in this potion don't always agree with some individuals. It's a safety measure." Usually they'd ask the customer to do that spell, but, well.  
  
The kid scuffs his shoes against the floor. Connor is lucky it's not a busy day, not that many of his days are busy. This would be quite a spectacle otherwise. “God. Yeah. Whatever."

“Thank you," Connor says cheerfully. He waves his wand over the kid; it's a simple spell and he's done it plenty of times, so he doesn’t even need the incantation anymore. “No interactions that should cause any issues...right. And now for the truth spell—"  
  
“Wait, the fucking WHAT?"  
  
But Connor's already cast it. He technically had consent. Gray area. Whatever. He's not too bothered by gray areas, and he's curious.  
  
“Is everything you've told me so far true?" he asks.  
  
“It didn't have to do with memory," he says, scowling. He looks livid. It's not very effective given his current state. “But yeah. I got hit by a spell, I got de-aged, I want the potion to at least hike me back up to an age where I have magic so I can undo the spell."  
  
“Fair enough." Connor twirls his wand between two fingers. He's planning on cancelling the truth spell, because this might be a gray area but he's not an _asshole_, when the kid blurts out, “And also you're—not like a robot.” He clenches his teeth, but the spell keeps going. “You were just staring at me and you're really attractive and I'm a fucking—cabbage patch kid right now, so.” He claps his hands bodily over his mouth, face now firmly red, looking somewhere between horrified and pissed as fuck.  
  
Connor cancels the truth spell, grin widening, head still tilted. "I suppose I'll know how to react to that in a few moments, hm?" The kid's hands move to cover his eyes also, shaking his head mutely.  
  
He decides not to prolong his suffering any longer. A wave of his hand brings the aging potion from the back close enough for the kid to drink, and he does with a speed that could only be born of desperation. He ages progressively, from a cute kid to a gangly preteen to a tall, curly-haired youth—and then he's muttering something and with the squeeze that comes from distended space and a pop as it's released, he's a very tall gentleman with lovely silver hair. Same blue eyes, though.

Connor stays leaning against the counter, staring thoughtfully. The man is big, with broad shoulders and large hands and a delightfully rounded belly, and he's still red in the face and refusing to make eye contact.  
  
“Okay," he says suddenly. "Thanks.” He makes to leave the shop, but is prohibited from doing so. He curses at the door barrier, flustered.  
  
“You haven't paid," Connor says, and the man's shoulders hunch even further in on themselves.  
  
“God. Sorry. I'm just—" he sucks in air through his teeth. He has a beard now, Connor thinks distantly. He doesn't mind beards.  
  
“Flattered," he proclaims suddenly, having made his evaluation.  
  
“Wha?"  
  
"I said I'd know how to react to that in a few moments. I'm flattered."  
  
He's finally looking at him, but he just looks confused. “That you think I'm attractive. What's your name?"  
  
"Hank?" He still looks like he doesn't know how to respond. That's fair.  
  
“All right, Hank." Connor consults his price book in the back from afar. “Well. That'll be $25 and your number, if you'd like to give it." Hank's mouth drops open.  
  
“Not that the number is giving you a discount," Connor clarifies mildly, “Just an additional preference. No pressure."  
  
Hank is blinking too fast, but he nods jerkily and digs in his trenchcoat for a wallet. He pulls out some cash. "I don't have any paper," he says apologetically.  
  
“We're wizards, Hank," Connor says, a bit amused.  
  
“Oh. Yeah. Right, yeah.” He conjures some paper and a pen and passes it over. "I, uh, don't understand exactly, but here you go, I guess."

Connor takes the cash from Hank's hands and the number. “You think I'm attractive. I think you're attractive, now that you're an adult. Sometimes when two adults share mutual attraction—"  
  
“Jesus _Christ_—"  
  
“They go on a date, if they are both amenable." Hank's expression is withering.  
  
Okay.  
  
So maybe Connor is kind of an asshole.  
  
“Well, guess nobody could ever accuse you of not taking opportunities where you find 'em, huh," he mutters.  
  
“They certainly could not," Connor says, cheerful again. “Well." Hank chews on his lip, looking at the number in Connor's hands. “Okay. Then, uh. See you—see you later, I guess?"  
  
"I hope so," Connor purrs, and Hank trips on his feet.  
  
All in all, he thinks as he watches him curse his way out, a _very _successful transaction.


	9. October 22nd: In Which Connor is a Necromancer and Hank is Not Grateful

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cws for this chapter: necromancy, graverobbing (sort of unintentionally), mentions of decomposition, hank is a corpse that connor brings back to life so sort of everything that goes along with that, connor refuses to undo the spell and so hank is sort of...non-consensually alive?, hank is depressed and talks about being grateful for death

Connor had never thought he'd have to convince someone to be glad for another shot at life before. Admittedly, it's not the sort of thing he thinks about often. But like...Frankenstein's monster was grateful, right?

(While he's admitting things, Connor has never read Frankenstein.)  
  
Connor's also not really supposed to be doing this. Necromancers these days are used in a variety of fields—law enforcement, veterinary service, medicine—but they aren't supposed to, uh, necromance. Not like, lastingly. It's taboo. And Connor's in training right now, so he knows that, but he had failed his last final, and he figured animating an entire human instead of just a cat like he was supposed to might make up for marks, and he was going to send him back, but then the guy had sat up in his coffin and looked around and rolled his eyes and said 'nope' and laid right back down, and _that_ just seemed rude.  
  
“Excuse me," Connor had said, affronted, "I brought you back to life, you know."  
  
“Yeah, I know," the guy said. "I didn't ask you to. You can, uh.” He waves his hands a little bit. “Stop."  
  
“Stop?" Connor had asked, even more affronted.  
  
“Stop doing that. Re-dead me."  
  
“Why, I never," Connor had scoffed. “You should be glad! You have another lease at life!" He's leaving out that this wasn't supposed to be permanent for the sake of argument.  
  
“Yeah, well, my first 'lease' sucked. Not expecting the second one to go any better. Why not get it over with fast?"  
  
“But you—"  
  
“Also aren't you not, like.” He waves vaguely again. “Supposed to do this shit?"  
  
“Maybe I'm evil," Connor shoots back.  
  
The guy looks at him witheringly. Connor shrinks.  
  
“Or maybe I wanted better grades on my necromancy final," he mumbles, kicking at some grave dirt.  
  
“Yeah, that sounds more like it," the guy snorts. “Look. I'd write you a great letter of rec for that final, or whatever, but. I should get back to being dead, and all."  
  
Connor stamps his foot, frustrated again. "I just don't understand why you _want_ that! You could—I don't know, you could probably overpower me, run away and be free!"  
  
"I'm like, half skeleton."  
  
“Well there's probably some people who are into that," Connor snaps, “Or wouldn't mind, or—I don't know, restorative spells, it's probably the same principle as medical magic—"  
  
“Look, kid."  
  
"I'm three hundred, god damn it!"  
  
“Look, old man," the guy continues smoothly, like he'd never been interrupted in the first place. “Like I said, my life wasn't great, okay? When I died, it was...I wasn't sad about it. It felt more like a release than a punishment."

Connor purses his lips.  
  
“So thanks for taking the time and all. This is definitely the most interesting conversation I've had in, uh, a while. But you don't have to feel bad for me. You just have to let nature keep taking its course. It's how it's meant to be."

Connor knows he can be stubborn sometimes. Childish, even. Prideful.  
  
The knowledge has never kept him from acting as such, hence why he says, “No."  
  
"...No."  
  
“No! You deserve a better life...” He peeks at the gravestone. "Hank. Hank Anderson. You deserve better than to end your life with simple resignation."  
  
“Uh," Hank starts, starting to look a bit nervous. “That's not what—"  
  
“You deserve to end it with pride in a life well lived! Feeling fulfilled!"  
  
"I don't...think I..."

“So I will help you, Hank Anderson," Connor says magnanimously, extending a hand down into the grave. “For as long as it takes for you to be pleased not just with your death, but with the life that came before it. I will help you find that kind of ending."

Hank stares at him, and then again says, “Nope," and lies down.  
  
“You can't die without my help," Connor says.  
  
“Try me."  
  
“Undead are a lot hardier than humans.” He learned this in his necromancy course.

Hank takes several deep breaths, then sits back up, glaring at him. “You're a fucking asshole."  
  
“So I've heard!"  
  
“And I don't like you."  
  
“As is your right."  
  
“And I am _not_ grateful."  
  
“You don't have to be, I suppose!"  
  
He keeps glaring, then sighs in a very put-upon way. “God. Fine. Since I apparently don't have a choice.” He takes Connor's hand to get help out of the grave.  
  
If this were a romance, maybe he'd feel sparks, at that moment. After all, as it turns out, this is the moment that moves him one step further along the path to a future in which he falls in love with Hank. And one in which Hank loves him back, even, one in which they have to fight to find a way to stay together.  
  
But this is not a romance, so Connor presently just has to fight to keep his smile straight, because Hank's hand is decomposing.  
  
“Serves you right," Hank says.

“Probably," Connor responds, conspicuously wiping his hand on his cloak. "I'm Connor, by the way."  
  
"I don't care."  
  
“You have bad manners," Connor says jovially. “All right. What do you think was lacking in your last life that might provide you fulfillment?"

“Death?"  
  
“Other than that."  
  
And so they walk together out of the graveyard, and start their story.  
  
(And also start a bit of an incident, because graverobbing is both illegal and rather gauche.  
  
Connor would argue it's not robbing.  
  
Hank would say it definitely is. But, well.)


	10. October 23rd: In Which Hank and Connor Confess Love over a Meal of Orbs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cws for this chapter: mention of sex, innuendo, negative self opinion

Everyone always assumes they've already done it.

Not sex.

Well, they probably assume that too. But more pertinently: everyone assumes that Hank and Connor probably have checked whether they're soulmates. It's a very convenient spell, and it's so well baked into society that it's just expected that you'll do it when you first meet, after the pleasantries are out of the way. And Hank and Connor have known each other for years and years. They met when Connor was 22 and Hank was 42, and now Connor is 33 and Hank is 53, so—well, Connor's the one who likes math, but it's been a while. And they're best friends, so close that people, well. Assume.

But neither of them have. Or Hank is assuming on Connor's part, because asking would mean getting too far into shit he doesn't want to think about. Like maybe he did and the spell said they weren't compatible. Maybe he did and the spell said they were compatible, but Connor just doesn't want him like that.  
  
And either way it doesn't matter. Hank's never done it. He never wants to. Because whatever it tells him—it couldn't be more important than just this, just having Connor close. He can't give that up. He won't.

Maybe if they'd had this conversation years ago it would have mattered less, maybe if they'd talked when Hank was less in love with Connor. Maybe Connor could've said they couldn't be together and it would've mattered less.  
  
But, well. Hindsight and all. “You can come in," Connor's voice calls out, warm and cheerful like it usually is with Hank. "I've finished my work for the day."  
  
Connor's wards have never kept Hank out, and he passes through them with ease, taking off his coat and throwing it to the ground. It floats back up, hanging itself onto the coatrack by the door. One of the sleeves raises to make a shaking movement in Hank's direction, almost like a 'tsk tsk'.  
  
"I always tell you it's simpler if you just put it on the coatrack in the first place," Connor says. He's coming out of his workroom. Hank doesn't go in there often; Connor has a lot of complex spellwork going on at any given time that doesn't always take well to additional magic signatures being introduced.  
  
“And I always tell you it's faster to put it on the floor." Hank pulls Connor into a one-sided hug. It's only been a week since they've seen each other, but it always feels longer. “Hey, Con."  
  
“Hey, Hank," Connor murmurs, hand gliding over his back, in between his shoulder blades, before dropping back to his side. “Dinner is almost ready."  
  
Hank winces before he can stop himself.  
  
“Oh, hush. You know I got that...” His hands wave. “Thing lately. Don't worry, I'm not cooking."  
  
“Oh, the generator? I thought that was still in prototype."  
  
"I know people," Connor says with a grin.

“Lucky bastard." Hank flops down on the couch. He's familiar enough with Connor's apartment to not have any reservations inside it. Hell, he helped him find the place. And the couch. “And here I am, stuck with takeout like every other talentless fuck in the city."

“Oh, don't say that," Connor says, sitting on the couch a bit more delicately. “Some of the talentless fucks get food from their partners."  
  
Hank freezes. Connor does too, though Hank figures it's probably because he said something he might think is rude to poke at. “Or their parents," he continues, a bit less smoothly, but Hank appreciates the cover.  
  
“Jesus, Con, that's cold. You're calling kids talentless fucks?"  
  
Connor wiggles his eyebrows. “Not all of them. Only the ones without talent."  
  
“Dick," Hank snorts.

“Oh, you love it."  
  
They both freeze again.  
  
“Anyway," Hank says. “Let's stop insulting kids. You never told me, what happened last time with Mrs. Fisher?"  
  
It's an unsubtle topic change, but Connor throws himself into it with gusto, almost with relief. Maybe he is relieved. Hank doesn't think about why. He's not gonna waste heartbreak on hypotheticals. If Connor has caught on to what Hank feels and he's—if he's—

He's not going to think about it.  
  
By the time Connor is finished complaining about Mrs. Fisher, the food is ready. “It doesn't taste exactly like...food," Connor explains as he takes it over to the table, face wrinkling. “At least not food we eat. I don't know how to explain it. It's not bad—"  
  
“These are some ringing endorsements here."  
  
"I mean, it's still a prototype."

“Uh-huh. Well, I have the pizza place's number memorized."  
  
Connor throws him an amused look. “Sad."  
  
“Well-prepared," Hank counters, “And also, fuck you."  
  
“If you ask nicely," Connor says, rolling his eyes with a smile, and while he throws out innuendo regularly, this time he stiffens again.  
  
Hank tries not to think too much about it. Connor definitely doesn't look like he wants it brought up.  
  
Hank doesn't bring it up, and instead fills his plate with...whatever the item made.  
  
“Very, uh. Spherical."  
  
“It only makes orbs," Connor says. “If there's a setting to change it, I haven't found it."  
  
“Man, I'm starting to regret dissing takeout."  
  
“Just try it."  
  
Hank tries it. His face immediately wrinkles up in thought. He...has no idea how to describe it. Connor is right, it doesn't taste like food exactly. It's still filling, but it's like...food from a different planet, maybe, or dimension. If you told aliens you wanted food and they didn't know quite what the word meant, maybe.  
  
“That's fucking weird, Connor," Hank says, staring at the sphere.  
  
“But not bad, right?"

“Yeah. But weird."  
  
“Not disagreeing." Connor shrugs. "I'm starting to wonder, frankly, if this is actually the real prototype. Kamski likes fucking with me."  
  
“Oh, that asshole?" Hank shudders. “Yeah, he seems the type to give you something weird just to see what you do."

“And now you're fucking with me too, by extension, then."  
  
“That'd be nice," Connor says, then chokes on a piece of orb.  
  
They both stare at their plates awkwardly.  
  
“Con..." Hank says, heart thumping.  
  
"I'm sorry," he says, almost at a whisper. “Fuck. I shouldn't have let you come."  
  
Hank's heart beats faster. "I...why?"  
  
Connor is silent a long while, biting at his lips, then he says, “Today...I was..."  
  
“You don't have to tell me if you don't want to," Hank says, suddenly scared.  
  
“No. Hank, you...I've been sweeping this under the rug for too long. You deserve to know.” He takes a deep breath. “One of the spell combinations I was working with today involved a truth spell. It's working its way out of my system, but there are still..."

Connor falters. Hank can barely hear for how his heart beats in his ears, his entire body. "Connor. It's fine."  
  
“It's not, Hank!" Connor snaps, and Hank flinches backwards. “We both know it's not. We keep—there's—between us, you know—" he exhales, frustrated. “Look. You know...you know that everybody thinks that we're already together, right?"  
  
Hank closes his eyes. He doesn't want to hear this. "Connor."  
  
“You know they all think we met and we performed the spell and—"  
  
"Connor," Hank repeats, almost pleading.  
  
“But I didn't." And this is it, this is where Connor says that he didn't want to know because he didn't want there to be even a possibility that he's tied to someone like Hank—  
  
But instead, Connor's voice is almost fragile as he asks, “Did you?"  
  
Hank breathes out through his teeth. “No."

“Why?"  
  
Hank knows this is all already fucked all to hell. He knows there's no coming back from this, that this conversation is going to hang between them forever now.  
  
So fuck it.  
  
Fuck it, he's lost him anyway.  
  
“At first, because I didn't do it for anyone. I thought it was stupid to leave your fate up to some spell we don't even understand. And after that because I didn't want to lose you as a friend. And after that, because I love you, and no spell was going to tell me different. I didn't want you to tell me different either."

“Open your eyes, Hank."  
  
He barely realizes he's still closing them. He opens them, looks at Connor. He's pale, but giving a tremulous smile.  
  
"I think we're both idiots."  
  
"...Okay?"  
  
“Because I thought it was pretty obvious I loved you too. You dumbass." Hank blinks at him. Blinks some more.  
  
“Oh," he says, dumbassedly.  
  
“Yeah, oh." Connor stands up and walks around to Hank's edge of the table, standing just before Hank's knees, but swaying like he wants to be closer. “Eleven years. Basically as long as I've known you."

Ah, math, Hank thinks dazedly, and reaches out to hold Connor's hands almost without knowing he's done it. “That is stupid. I'm a terrible person to be in love with."

"I fed you orbs," Connor counters, starting to grin.

“Okay, so we're both idiots," Hank says. He's starting to grin too, pulling Connor infinitesimally closer. “So what now?"

“So this," Connor says, and leans down to kiss Hank.

And that's that.

(Point one: both of them later decided not to perform the spell. They had already made their choice.

If they had, they would have found out that the spell agreed with them. But they didn't really need it to, in the end.

Everybody continued to assume they were together. This time, they were correct.

Point two: Connor returned the orb machine. Kamski had, indeed, given it to him to fuck with him.

They didn't really need to know that either, though, in his opinion.)


	11. October 24th: In Which Connor's Job Sucks, and He is a Gay Disaster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cws for this chapter: elitism, bad jobs, some innuendo

People joke, sometimes, that Connor must really believe in the mission of the Council if he works so hard for it. Or it might not be a joke. It might just be mocking him. He does work hard, but his work and the Council's mission aren't very closely related.  
  
Which is good, sort of, because the Council is bullshit. But bad, sort of, because basically he's a not-very-glorified pencil pusher. So. There's the short and short of it. The joke might not be a joke, but he is.

Connor's job is to follow up on old petitions. The Council gets thousands of petitions a year about changes to official policy, and because they're bullshit, most of them lapse past the time period they can be heard with nobody seeing them. Connor's job is part of some equally bullshit attempt at improving the Council's public image. Like hey, we're told we fucked this up, but it's okay because we've made one person try to unfuck it, even though we don't listen to him either!  
  
_Bullshit._ Some of these petitions are so old that the individuals who made them are long dead. Many have moved elsewhere or moved on.

The ones who haven’t usually hate him, because he works for the Council. Some of the nicer ones ask why he doesn't look for a better job. The answer is, one, this is the only thing on his resume and everybody hates the Council, and two, when he had signed his employment contract a hundred years ago as a young thing fresh out of wizard school and without any kind of understanding of contract law, he was an idiot.

The contract is up for renewal in five months. He has a party planned. The party is solely for himself, because he doesn't have friends, because everybody hates the fucking Council.  
  
So that's where he's at.  
  
Also where he's at: the city library, following up on a petition. The head librarian two hundred sixty two years ago had requested an increase in budget for the storage of old manuscripts. The Council two hundred sixty two years ago, and from then on, had ignored the request, because they are bastards who could give a rat's ass about history. Some of the old manuscripts in question must have already crumbled away. It's heartbreaking, and Connor feels like the lowest man on earth coming here with his tail between his legs to say 'hey do you still want this budget or can we dismiss the whole thing'.

God. His job sucks. He works hard at it because there's a chance that he can help some of these people get their petitions granted, albeit a small one, but the job itself sucks.  
  
He walks into the city library's doors and sighs, feeling some of the weight from his shoulders lift. He loves it here. He doesn't come often, because he doesn't have much time, but he loves books and before he got this job, he was here almost every day. When he does come here on a rare free weekend he usually goes straight to the shelves and sits there to read, so he hasn't met the new head librarian, but he's seen the name behind the desk. Hank Anderson.  
  
He walks up to aforementioned desk, fidgeting with the edge of his shirt. The person behind the desk is facing away, so he clears his throat awkwardly. “Pardon me, I'm looking for Mr. Hank Anderson?"  
  
The person turns around, which is unfortunate for Connor's health because he's gorgeous and Connor is as gay a disaster as they come. He chokes on his spit and starts coughing. It's fine. This beautiful man probably isn't gay or into Connor or anything, but if he was, Connor might not be giving the best first impression right now but it's definitely an accurate one.  
  
“Well, hello," the man says, and god fucking hell, his voice is a pantydropper too. Not that Connor is wearing panties. Presently. If this guy asked him to, he would. Not that he would ask. Oh, god, he's looking at him like Connor should be saying something, which he probably should.  
  
“Right," Connor ekes out. “Right, um. Sorry. Hi. I'm Connor Anderson—"

God. Shit.

“No.” He laughs nervously. “No, I'm not that. I am Connor. My last name's not Anderson. But I'm looking for Hank Anderson, whose last name—is. That."  
  
The man at least has the decency to look amused rather than disgusted.  
  
"I have an appointment with him. In..." Connor looks at the magic circle on the wall, spelling out the time. “Ten minutes or so? Connor Arkait. That's...my full name. If it helps with that."  
  
The man's smile drops gradually, and when he looks Connor up and down, it's unfortunately not seductive so much as it is disgruntled. “Ah. You don't look like an asshole."  
  
Connor is three hundred thirty two years old. He does not squeak.  
  
Much.  
  
"I—well, I'm not! I hope I'm not? I mean, what?"  
  
“You're that Council representative?"

Ah. So that's what's happening here. Connor suppresses a sigh. "I mean—representative is a bit strong—"  
  
“And all Council folk are assholes."  
  
Connor winces. “Well. Okay. Yes—"  
  
“So by extension, it seems reasonable that you are an asshole."  
  
Connor winces harder.

"I...okay. I guess I won't try to deny that. I can't know what you think of me, or...or change it, really. But I'm not anything so official as a representative. My job is to follow up on past petitions that lapsed because of the Council's incompetency and elitism. I do my best to get what petitions are still active after all this time through the Council's doors. They—don't listen to me much.”

His face twists.

"I try, though. So—maybe I'm an asshole, still, but I—well, if it counts for anything, I think they're assholes too?"

The man looks at him thoughtfully, head tilted, one big hand reaching up to tuck a strand of silver hair come loose from his ponytail back behind his ear.  
  
“Okay. Fair enough. I'm Hank Anderson."  
  
Connor reaches heretofore unknown levels of wincing, face reddening.

“We can talk in my office. It's just around the corner here."  
  
Connor nods mutely.  
  
“Oh, and by the way.” His grin is like a shark's—sharp, and dangerous, and beautiful. "Connor Anderson is a good name. We can table that talk for later, though."

Connor's not sure if a shark's prey makes any sound when they die, but he does. Something like a balloon losing all of its air rapidly, except maybe a balloon that was incredibly embarrassed.  
  
Hank opens the door for him. He's still smiling, but now he looks amused again. So let's reiterate:  
  
Connor's job _sucks_. And he hates the Council for giving it to him, and himself for taking it, and—just all of today. All of it sucks.  
  
(Or...maybe not so much, he thinks, peeking a look at Hank, whose smile widens.  
  
But at least some, for sure.)


	12. October 25th: In Which Hank Finds Connor in the Woods, Once and Then Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cws for this chapter: mentions of parental and grandparental neglect, brief implied mention of Cole's death

Hank has a memory that's so precious to him he's never told anyone about it. He's honestly not sure, these days, if it's real or he just made it up. Maybe even then he just wanted something good in his life.

And Connor was as good as it gets.

His dad used to send him off to his grandparents' house over the summer. Said he didn't have the time to deal with him when he was out of school. His grandparents weren't big on the deal, but as long as he stayed out of trouble they mostly just avoided him, so.

It was the most peace he had all year growing up, but he was a kid and he got bored quickly. He used that energy to go out exploring in the woods behind his grandparents' house—miles of sun-warm trees and things to find, whether it be animals or hidden creeks or cool rocks. And in the center of it all, he found Connor.  
  
More specifically, at first, he found Connor's house. It was a log cabin grown over with moss that almost disappeared if you looked at it from the wrong angle, but Hank squinted real hard and walked closer. Up close, there were flowers all around it and a little vegetable garden, and even closer, the door opened and he saw Connor for the first time.  
  
Even then, before he got to know him, seven-year-old-Hank thought he was the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. He thought to apologize for trespassing—some of the neighbors had yelled at him for that before—but Connor just sat down on the steps and looked at him curiously and said, “Who are you?"  
  
"I'm Hank Anderson," Hank said. "I'm staying with the Andersons down by the orchard."

"I don't know them," Connor had said, tilting his head, which would've been the first clue, in a small town like this, if Hank had known anything about anything. “You're a human?"  
  
Hank had laughed. “Of course I am, silly."  
  
“You never know!" Connor had said, defensive. “Maybe you could be a fairy playing tricks, or an elf hiding their ears."  
  
Hank had giggled again, shaking his head. “No I'm not. Fairies and elves aren't real anyway."  
  
Connor had tilted his head even further, rocking slightly forward onto his heels. "I have some friends who would think that was very rude to say."  
  
“Oh, sorry," Hank had said. He'd learned to be well-behaved early. You never know who takes it bad when you get out of line. “And you," he'd asked, stepping closer, playing Connor's game. “Are you human?"

“Mostly," he'd said with a shrug. “Mostly, except for I'm a witch too. I'm Connor, by the way. Nice to meet you."  
  
And he held out his hand to shake, and that's how Hank had learned, or at least started to learn, that the world was bigger than he'd thought.

Connor was twelve. He was mostly human because his ancestor is a dryad, which means she was “like a tree spirit, I guess," which is also “why my magic is mostly about nature and stuff", according to Connor. He lived with a family friend because his parents were on assignment. He didn't really explain where. “They're needed," he'd said, like it was obvious. “So they go where they need to."  
  
Connor had said a lot of things that didn't make sense. But he was also kind, kinder than most people ever were to Hank, and he knew magic.

The magic was almost the best part. Hank started to come there every day, and every day Connor would show Hank things he had learned—about growing things, about finding treasures the earth had hidden, about shaping water and bringing light and making things more beautiful. Connor's magic was always used to make things better, and when Hank saw it he could forget that outside this little bubble in the forest, things were still the same for him.  
  
Hank stayed with his grandparents over summers until he was fifteen. He visited Connor until then. And then both of his grandparents had passed away, and he didn't have any reason to go there anymore. At least, not any reason he could tell people about. And his dad said he needed to shape up and start working, anyway, and while he never forgot Connor, he was too busy to think about him.

But Hank, now in his fifties, was starting to get tired. His job felt like a dead end, and his life didn't feel much different. He had a lot more time to think about stuff he had tucked away for years. Connor, specifically.  
  
All his coworkers say he's crazy for selling his house and moving out to the country. He probably is, at that. But with Cole gone, he doesn't think he has much to lose, either.  
  
He drives to the countryside he hasn't seen in years and unpacks in a dingy old house and as soon as he's worked up the nerve, he takes Sumo on a walk.

The day isn't sunny, like he remembers; it's fall, and the clouds above threaten rain. The forest isn't exactly like he remembers either. Nearly 40 years can do a lot to a forest, and certainly to a memory.

But he couldn't forget the way to Connor's if he wanted to. For a few moments, he thinks nothing is there, that he's wasted everything on a dream.

But then he squints, and turns his head the right angle, and there it is, just like he remembered.

He walks towards the house with slow, unsure steps. Sumo wants to run towards it, and Hank does too, if he's being honest, but part of him is still worried that he'll lose sight of it and find himself alone in a forest with the oncoming rain.

But he doesn't. Sumo barks as the door opens and Connor steps out. He looks—older. Not as old as Hank, which is unfair and confusing, but then again he has magic. And his smile is still the same, like something blossoming, like the most beautiful plant growing and setting up roots in Hank's heart.

“Hi, Hank," he says. "I always hoped you'd come back someday."

Hank can't say anything. He thinks he might cry.

“And with a guest, at that!" He opens his arms, sits down on those steps, and Sumo comes bounding towards him.

Nothing cliché like the clouds breaking and showing the sun happens. The heavens aren't going to move for Hank Anderson.

But there's still a deep kind of satisfaction that settles in him, something that says, this is the life you wanted. This is what you needed.

"I missed you," Hank says, and Connor smiles up at him with Sumo in his lap.

It's not an I love you. Not yet. Even if they both know already. Even if Hank has known since he was fifteen, or maybe even since he was seven and saw the most beautiful thing in the world.

But right now is not the time for it. Right now is for Hank to walk forward. To sit on the steps of the house next to Connor, close enough to touch, close enough to feel his warmth.

That's enough magic for one day, Hank thinks.


	13. October 26th: In Which Hank Has a Misunderstanding with a Sprite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cws for this chapter: misunderstandings, arguably manipulation and lack of honesty

“Fuck, I hate sprites," Hank grumbles, shaking off some remaining fairy dust from his jacket. He's a royal guard, and he's not sure what about his performance got him nominated to be part of the diplomatic envoy between the sorcerer-king and the king of the sprites—plus fairies, pixies, the lot—but he wishes he could undo it. His wardrobe has never been so sparkly.  
  
The sparkles—and the hatred, which isn't precisely accurate to how he's really feeling, but it's close enough he feels comfortable saying it—are due to one specific man. Or, well. One specific sprite.  
  
Connor.  
  
Connor is governor to the young prince of the sprites, but the prince is expected to sit in on the diplomatic negotiations. That means Connor has plenty of free time, all of which he uses harassing Hank.

He's always flirting, which is infuriating and insulting. Infuriating, because he can't tell him off because he's on a diplomatic mission and doesn't want to cause some kind of incident. And insulting, because he's obviously not being sincere. How could he be, when Hank is like this and Connor is...well, like he is? Young, attractive, smart. He doesn't know why Connor chose him of all people to pick on, but lately he's starting to wonder if it might be cultural. Maybe sprites just are flirty. He's seen one of their royal guards winking at one of his coworkers, and the palace cook was whispering pretty close with the envoy's stablemaster.  
  
Hank levitates a mug to himself out of sheer laziness, fuming. “What'd Connor do today?" one of the other guards asks, knowing grin on his face. Hank doesn't know what the fuck he thinks he's knowing, or if he'd care to share.  
  
Hank scowls. “Well, apart from the usual bullshit—sitting right up next to me, brushing against me all the time—"

“Right, the usual bullshit," another guard smiles into her beer.  
  
“He said, uh, that my—that my hands were the, how'd he say it. 'The stuff of dreams'."  
  
The mess bursts into raucous laughter.  
  
“Look, shaddup! We all know he's just fucking with me."

“Do we?"  
  
“How do we know that?"  
  
“Because...” He gestures at himself. “You know!"  
  
They've calmed down enough that Hank can hear when Wilkes, across the way, says "I dunno, Hank. You should see how he looks at you. I think he's pretty serious." Hank scowls harder, but for a few moments he lets himself wonder.  
  
A few days later, with only a day left until the end of the mission—negotiations are going well, with plans for open borders between the two nations almost certain—Hank is told to leave station for the library. He does as he's told, though it seems suspicious enough that he's imbued his blade with some magic. Just a little, just in case.  
  
But there are no assassins in the library, just a stately older woman, sipping at tea.  
  
“Hello, Hank," she says. "I've heard a lot about you. Please, sit down."  
  
He does, even more suspicious now.  
  
“And you can drop that spell, dear, I really do just want to talk."  
  
“About what?"  
  
“About Connor." She smiles even though he rolls his eyes and huffs, dropping the spell.  
  
“What about him?"

“It's not really my business, I suppose, but I am curious why you react like that just to his name."  
  
“Because—" The woman is a sprite, and he doesn't want to be rude, but she _is_ asking. “Because he's done nothing but make fun of me since we got here!"

She raises her eyebrows. “Oh?"  
  
“He keeps, uh...making...romantic advances when he doesn't mean them. And I don't know about here, ma'am, so I mean no disrespect, but where I come from it's rude to do that just 'cause you know it won't happen."

The woman hums thoughtfully. "I feel as though some meaning has gotten tangled between you both. Where did you get the impression that he was being insincere?"  
  
Hank pauses, frowning. “Why would he be sincere?"  
  
“Well, I think that's more on his end to answer. But probably for the usual reasons you would approach a potential partner—that you find them attractive in some way, intriguing. That you would like to get to know them better."  
  
Hank shakes his head. “Nobody would find me attractive. Especially not someone like him."

“Well, I suppose that does explain the tangle," the woman says, clapping her hands. "Connor, you can come out from where you're hiding, now. I don't know why you would think I couldn't tell."  
  
Connor ripples into vision from behind a bookshelf, blushing abashedly.

Hank's nostrils flare. “Ah. So was this just—what, a way to humiliate me one last time?"  
  
“No! No, Hank, I don't—" Connor rubs the bridge of his nose. “This was my grandmother interfering, and while I do not approve—" He shoots a look at her, and she smiles placidly. "I am grateful for the chance, at least, to set things on a straighter course. Hank. I have never—been insincere with you. I find you interesting, the power you show with your team, the way you smile when you are not on your guard—even the defensiveness you show here."

“And.” He coughs, looking again at his grandmother embarrassedly, but he says it anyway. "I do find you very attractive. Tremendously so."  
  
Hank's mind whirls. That doesn't make any sense, he's—  
  
"I did not realize that you thought I was playing pretender this whole time. If I had, I would have rectified the misunderstanding sooner. I thought you were just shy, I never thought—that—" The blush on his face renews. “And—well, I was going to ask before you left if you would formally accept my declaration of courtship. But I suppose that would be inappropriate now, wouldn't it?"  
  
He looks so sad that Hank, for the first time, realizes that Connor means every word he's just said.  
  
“Uhh," Hank says, which he also means because he's confused as shit, but which isn't very helpful.

“So I'm sorry, Sir Hank. I've well and truly bunged this up. I cannot ask you to court, but may I at least ask for your forgiveness?"  
  
He bows.  
  
He fucking bows.  
  
This is all so wrong. Hank finds himself saying, "I mean, it's not—like I hated you, or anything."

Which is true, technically, because while he said he hated sprites, the more accurate thing that he did not say because he did not want to think it, was that he was hurt that all of that wasn't actually for him.  
  
But if it was...  
  
"I mean...maybe we could. Start over again? Or something like that?"  
  
Connor's eyes shine bright with hope, only highlighted by how he's starting to secrete those damn sparkles from his palms again.

Fuck.

Hank's wardrobe is gonna be ruined, huh.  
  
"I'd love that, Hank," Connor says. And suddenly Hank isn't sure how much he cares about his wardrobe, not when Connor's lips are curving into a little smile like that, and not when Hank's been wondering all this time what it would feel like to kiss him, if he weren't an asshole.  
  
So maybe they can get to that. Not now, but...maybe later.  
  
Connor's grandmother, the previous Queen of Sprites before she retired and left the monarchy to her son, decides her work is done here. Really, a job is best done when done yourself, in the end.  
  
It doesn't appear Connor has let on yet that he's royal. She imagines that'll be another obstacle, even if Connor's younger brother Niles is the one set to take the throne. Connor's always preferred teaching, and taught Niles since he got his certification; it was never really an issue for their family, something solved quietly. But Hank, just from knowing him this long, probably won't be quiet about it. She might have to have another cup of tea with him.  
  
Well, all in good time, she thinks jovially, and returns to the negotiations.  
  
Her daughter-in-law nudges her. “Did it go well?"

“Oh, perfectly," she whispers. “Those open borders will be useful in the future, I imagine."  
  
"I suggested that amendment for a reason. Passports are such a hassle, you know."  
  
"I mean, it wouldn't have been a problem, once they were married."

“Still. It's polite to do what you can for family."  
  
Niles sighs at them. “You're both such gossips. They're not even courting yet."

But even he had seen Connor's eyes when he ran in after the envoy had arrived, gushing about the most beautiful man with silver hair and blue eyes. If he were inclined towards gossip, maybe he'd join in.But he's not, so instead he politely listens to the negotiations, and shakes hands when it is appropriate to do so, and maybe he privately smiles when he thinks of how happy his older brother will be when they get back. But if so, that's really his own business, isn't it.


	14. October 27th: In Which Hank Establishes His Wizard Territory, Badly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cws for this chapter: some ableist language, hank is very insensitive, innuendo, reference to past murder (more or less), food mention

Five hundred years.

Well.

Five hundred three.

Five hundred three years Hank's been the Wizard of the South, the wizard everybody comes to when they need information or magic on a quest or to rule a kingdom or whatever else. Five hundred three FUCKING years, and Hank had thought this was understood.

Except apparently not, because some upstart has built a hut just past the swamp (a hut, not even a tower! God, kids these days have no panache).

Another wizard. Another wizard in the south.  
  
It's goddamn disrespectful, is what it is.  
  
He's been keeping the Eye watching the road. And he's seen more than a few would-be questers going to the new guy's place first. Fucking ridiculous.  
  
Hank decides to intervene.  
  
He heads to the hut and bursts in. His magic bursts behind him in a very impressive way.  
  
“Oh my," says the wizard mildly. He is sipping tea. Notably, he didn't even have the decency to spit it out when Hank made his impressive entrance. Hank is insulted, which is a lot more comfortable thing to be than the other option, namely charmed by the wizard's high cheekbones and curly hair and warm eyes.

Hank is immediately set off kilter by the welcoming atmosphere of the hut, which has plants and warm light and is completely lacking in any menacing eyeballs, which Hank has his audience room draped in.  
  
Hank doesn't like being off kilter, and growls, “You bastard."

"I tend to prefer introductions before I respond to any presumptions about my heritage," the bastard says, calmly taking another sip of his tea. "I'm Connor. I'm a hearth witch. And you?"  
  
Hank pauses, brow furrowing. “A witch? But your magic signature, I could feel it from—"

“Your ostentatious tower? I'm guessing." Connor is smiling sweetly, but his eyes are sharp. “Are you Hank? Since you refuse to introduce yourself like someone with manners."  
  
"I have manners," Hank protests, off kilter again. "I am Hank, but—"  
  
“Lovely to meet you then, Hank. If you'd told me you were coming ahead of time, I could have made us something to eat."  
  
His smile has gone sharp now too. Dangerous, almost.  
  
Hank falters. “Sorry?" he shakes his head. “Wait, no. I came here because I'm the Wizard of the South and you're—"

“A witch." Hank can't bring himself to look at that smile anymore. “Are there any rules about wizards and witches coexisting?"  
  
“No, but—"  
  
"I assure you we inhabit very different spaces, Henry. You torment people going on quests by making them walk through a swamp and solve puzzles and such to get to the top of your ugly tower."  
  
“Hey," Hank protests, mostly just on principle.  
  
“And then you do, you know. Wizard shit."  
  
“Hey," Hank protests again, still on principle, because Connor sounds terribly dismissive when he says that.

“Whereas I help the people in the area that you have neglected for—what, five hundred years?"  
  
“Five hundred three."  
  
“Right, five hundred three, my apologies. I help them grow their crops and with their livestock and I heal their sick. So, you see, Henry."

"Hank."  
  
Connor's glance is cutting, and Hank falls silent.  
  
“We have no reason to be against one another, because our fields do not intersect. You do your thing, and I do my things that actually matter." Connor smiles again, and it's too sweet to be genuine.

Hank opens his mouth even though he's not sure what he's going to say, or if he could say anything at all.  
  
Connor carefully sets his teacup down on the table with delicate hands, and says, “This has been lovely, but I'm afraid I have matters to attend to. Goodbye, Hank."

And then, before Hank can say anything or defend against the magic or even really think much, he's transported back to his tower.  
  
It has wards all around it. People shouldn't be able to transport him inside.  
  
“He's definitely a wizard," Hank murmurs to himself. He hadn't misjudged his power signature. Someone that powerful wasn't born a hearth witch.  
  
Hank scratches his beard, eyes lighting up at the thought of an actually interesting mystery for the first time in at least a century, and goes to his bookshelf to do some research.

For the next several days, Hank closes shop as a wizard-for-hire in favor of researching the intriguing case of Connor. He has a number of spells that aid him in finding information that was never written down in books or spoken out loud, which aid him in this quest.

He probably looks a madman. He's tied up his beard, which normally falls to his feet, and has thrown it over his shoulder so it doesn't get in the way while he pores over the written results of his spells and a few of his own scrolls and tomes to boot. He keeps a feather quill over his ear. His eyes are bright despite the dark circles under them from a lack of sleep, and his hair was initially also tied back into a long ponytail but it's almost all fallen out, wild and white around his head.  
  
He's found it though. The explanation. He loves explanations. He had forgotten that's why he had come here, to this tower—to be alone to figure the greatest mysteries of this world out, to use magic to solve big problems. Five hundred three years ago, when the first knight had come along seeking help, that hadn't been the point. He had just wanted to help.  
  
But there's no point reminiscing over the past. He teleports himself to just out of Connor's hut and bursts in the door again.  
  
"I figured it out!"  
  
“Good God, man, is knocking entirely foreign to you?"  
  
Hank waves his hand dismissively. “There's no point to it."  
  
“No? What if I had been naked?"  
  
Hank suppresses his natural urge to blush by replacing it with his natural urge to fight instead.  
  
“Then you would have paid the price for an unlocked door."  
  
Connor rolls his eyes. Hank tries not to think about him naked, with only limited success.  
  
“Will you leave before telling me what it is you're so excited about that you've foregone both hygiene and basic courtesy?"  
  
“Not willingly."  
  
Connor sighs, sitting down dramatically in a cozy-looking armchair. “Fine. What is it."  
  
“Your father was Elijah Kamski, right?"  
  
Connor's face shutters. “Leave."  
  
“Like I said, not willingly." Hank steps a little closer. “You were raised by someone else—an Amanda Stern—but your father was Kamski. He was imprisoned by the Circle for using the souls of those who came to him for help to animate artificial bodies."  
  
He's seen Connor sharp, but this Connor looks almost murderous. “Why are you telling me things I already know?"  
  
“Because," Hank says, a bit more subdued now. "I was wondering why someone with one of the most powerful magic signatures I've ever felt was saying he was a hearth witch. We also both know that witches are normal humans who commune well with magic. Wizards are born with power. You're a wizard."  
  
Connor's mouth twists. "I'm _not_."  
  
“And that's why I realized it. You were raised by a witch, and your father is a wizard who remains infamous to this day. Of course you wouldn't want to be like him."  
  
Hank's voice is gentle—surprisingly so, even to him—but Connor still flinches. For the first time in all this, Hank realizes that he probably shouldn't have come. Not for this.  
  
“You," Connor says quietly, “Are _worse_ than not having manners. You are cruel."  
  
Hank is the one who winces this time.  
  
“Amanda, my mother—the only one who matters, anyway. She recommended I come down here because you have a reputation for not caring about anything but yourself."  
  
Hank deserves that, but he fidgets with the tip of his beard anyway.  
  
“She knew the only one who could tell—how I was born—was another wizard. But you were never supposed to come here."  
  
“Sorry," Hank offers up weakly.  
  
Connor meets his gaze, eyes flinty. "I have never met a wizard who cares about the people they help. Why would they? They're already so far above them, so much more powerful. I'm a witch because I wanted to care. Because I do. That's all."  
  
Hank shuffles his feet. “Okay," he finally says. "I was out of line. I was so interested in your magic that I...forgot there was a person there also.” He scrunches up his face; Hank has never liked apologies. Connor stares at him, a bit thoughtful.  
  
"I don't like you," he says.  
  
"I think that's probably fair." Hank doesn't think he likes Connor either.  
  
“It doesn't sit well with me.” He gestures to his table. “We should have tea."  
  
Hank recoils. He hasn't had a meal with someone in...a long time.  
  
Maybe five hundred three years, at that.  
  
“No thanks," he says, uncomfortable.  
  
"I insist. As payment for being an ass, if you need the convincing."  
  
Hank groans, pulling at his beard. “Really?"  
  
“Yes, really. It's just tea, Henry." Hank isn't sure things with Connor are just anything.  
  
He also isn't sure Connor won't turn his tower green, or something, if he leaves right now.  
  
“God. Fine."  
  
“Nice to feel appreciated," Connor murmurs under his breath. "I have cookies."

It is, unexpectedly, the first of a number of tea sessions between both of them—and the first of something much bigger also. But as powerful as both of them are, neither can see the future.

Hank sits gingerly at the table. “What kind?"  
  
“Molasses."  
  
"I don't like molasses."

“Well, it's the only kind we have."

Hank eats molasses.

It tastes like shit, but he says, “Thank you" anyway.

So that's a start.


	15. October 28th: In Which Hank Is Accused of Being A Wizard, Accurately

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cws for this chapter: clubbing, alcohol use/overuse, innuendo, PDA, ableist language

“Let me get this straight," says the attractive twink Hank had, until recently, been passionately kissing against the wall. The development thereafter has been much less fun. “You're—what, in your forties?"  
  
“Fifty-three," Hank says, “But thanks, I guess."  
  
“Fifty-three, okay." The twink keeps pacing back and forth. While it gives Hank a spectacular view of his ass, it's also making him kind of dizzy. “You're in your fifties, and you never knew you were a wizard?"  
  
“As I said when you first brought up that flagrant bullshit," Hank says, crossing his arms, “Maybe I never knew because wizards don't fucking exist."  
  
Crazy twink scowls. “Okay, first, stop crossing your arms. It pushes out your chest and it's really distracting."  
  
Hank raises an eyebrow and keeps his arms crossed.  
  
“Bitch," the guy mumbles, wrinkling his nose. “Okay, whatever. Second, wizards do fucking exist."  
  
“What, and I'm the one who has to kill Voldemort or some shit?"

The guy looks adorably confused. “What? You think Harry Potter is real?"  
  
Hank pauses. "I was just—"  
  
“That's just a book, dude."  
  
"I—" Hank is irritated to find he's blushing. "I don't, I was just making a joke—"  
  
“Sure, okay. Anyway. No. No Voldemort. Just wizards."

“Right, okay, we're still going with that."  
  
“You're being an asshole," the guy says, sniffing at him.  
  
"I'm being, like, the normal way some normal guy would be when the guy he's macking on says wizards are real! I'm pretty sure!"  
  
Now the guy is blushing too. “If you could _refrain_ from referring to our previous activities—"  
  
“What, us making out?"  
  
“Stop."  
  
“Smooching like it was the end times."  
  
"_Stop_ it."  
  
It's funny how his face goes redder every time. "I was gonna ask you home."  
  
The guy stops in his tracks. His face is a beautiful crimson. If he weren't talking about wizards Hank would be so turned on right now.  
  
As it stands he's—only a little.  
  
(His dick will get the memo at some point, he's sure.)  
  
“Well—that's before I knew you were—a Harry Potter douche."

“Scathing."  
  
“Look, what do you need? Proof?"  
  
“You're going to prove I'm a wizard? What, have I been hiding a pointy hat?"  
  
“No, dumbass, I can prove _I'm_ a wizard."  
  
And with that the room is on fire.  
  
“Uh?" Hank says. It's the shock. Understandable, in his opinion.

And then the room is underwater, except he can breathe.  
  
“Okay, is your mouth drugs because—"  
  
“You're so stubborn!"  
  
The room goes back to normal, and Hank takes a deep breath.  
  
He's riding a unicorn.  
  
It has two horns, though, so—  
  
“Fucking ha-ha."

“You said you were bi," the guy points out. "I'm trying to be considerate."  
  
“By setting me on fire through mouth drugs?"  
  
“Maybe you've had too much to drink for this," the guy says, rubbing his hand over his absurdly pretty face. “Look. You’re a wizard. I can tell because I'm a wizard. That's it. You can believe me or not."  
  
Hank says, “Not."  
  
The unicorn (binicorn, whatever) disappears, and the guy sighs. He actually looks disappointed. “Fine. Okay. I'll get you home."  
  
He snaps, and Hank is back home. And the guy isn't.  
  
...It feels wrong, somehow, like this isn't how the evening should have gone. But Hank presses his lips together and just goes to bed. It's how every other evening has gone, anyway. No reason this one should be different.

It's when he wakes up levitating from his bed that he starts to think that maybe, just maybe, pretty twink was right.  
  
“Aw, hell," he says, and drops back down to bed.  
  
And things keep happening.

It's like—like they've happened before, but now he realizes why. The things that are too convenient to happen regularly but do—the green lights that are always there, how his coffee's always at the exact right temperature—and the things he always explained away but understands now. Doors flying open, random gusts of wind inside the house. If he had thought about it for even a second he probably would've known the guy wasn't bullshitting him. He was always just bullshitting himself.  
  
It only takes him a week before he heads back to the club where he met the guy. There's a good chance he won't be there anymore. But he kinda hopes. Maybe he can even teach him how to control this shit.  
  
He gets drunk enough that he doesn't care how awful he probably looks on the dance floor, just like last time, and—just like last time, someone appears behind him.

“So," he whispers. “You're a wizard."

“Yeah," Hank says, turning around and putting his arms around the guy's waist. “Guess so."  
  
“And an asshole."  
  
"I—" he scowls. “Sure. Probably."  
  
“You could've just sent me a message," the guy says. “Didn't have to go clubbing."  
  
“What, is that a wizard thing?"

He snorts. “No, it's a social media exists thing."  
  
"I don't know your name," Hank points out.  
  
“Ah. True.” He grins up at Hank. "Connor Arkait."  
  
"Hank Anderson."  
  
“Glad we sorted that out.” He gets closer. “And now that we have...I believe we were interrupted by some flagrant bullshit last time."  
  
“Oh? What kind?" Hank grabs his ass, scoots him closer.  
  
“Doesn't matter, I guess," Connor murmurs, and kisses him.  
  
And maybe he should have known from the start, Hank thinks.

Because Connor tastes like magic.


	16. October 29th: In Which Connor's Interest is Piqued by a Bird

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cws for this chapter: i don't believe there are any, please let me know if i'm incorrect

"Hey," says the bird. "Listen to me."  
  
Connor staunchly does not listen to him, as has been the case for a week. He'd close the window, like he's also been doing for a week, except for he's almost got this potion just right and it's very complex and takes all his concentration—  
  
"Hey," says the bird, hopping on his windowsill. "Motherfucker."  
  
Connor drops in one drop too much. The potion doesn't explode all over his office, but only because Connor is a professional and knows to throw up a barrier. It's definitely ruined, though, and Connor's teeth clench as he whirls to look at the bird.  
  
"Sorry," the bird says. It doesn't look very sorry. Admittedly, that could be because it is a bird.  
  
"What," Connor hisses. "What the fuck is so important that it warrants ruining my work? Need some birdseed or something?"  
  
Connor imagines the bird might look offended if it weren't a bird. As it stands, it just says, "Fuck you."

"You really know how to ask for a favor."  
  
"I'm not asking for a favor!"  
  
"Then get out."  
  
"I—okay, it's a little bit of a favor." It hops closer, sighing. "Okay. Look. The thing is, I'm not a bird. I'm a human. I need help—"  
  
"That is the definition of a favor," Connor growls. He might be in a better mood if the bird hadn't ruined his potion, but it did. And also technically, he knew already. Birds don't usually talk, and they don't usually have beards, and also Niles had sent him a heads up that someone had triggered his bird curse. Being that he knew, it might have been good manners to help the poor schmuck and send him on his way.  
  
But that would be getting involved. Connor doesn't like being involved.  
  
"Look, okay, I'm sorry I fucked up your whatever it was, I'm sorry I've been annoying you. This isn't exactly an optimal situation for both of us, okay?"  
  
"Because you don't want to be a bird?"  
  
"Because I need to get back to my son."  
  
Connor observes the bird carefully. It stares back birdily. It seems like it's telling the truth, in a bird kind of way.  
  
"Okay."

Connor's memorized every spell in his books, and frankly since the bird has started coming around, he'd already double checked the one he has in mind. It's fairly simple: just an incantation and a specific set of hand movements.  
  
When he's done, there's a man on his windsill. He's naked, and falling backwards with a shriek.  
  
Connor snorts and waves his hand to keep him from falling to his death. An additional courtesy free of charge.  
  
"Thanks," the guy says breathlessly. "You wouldn't happen to have some clothes around here, would you?"

Niles always says Connor is too generous, even if he's bad-tempered about it. He sends the man a vicious look and sizes up an old pair of his own clothes before sending them dancing down the stairs and into this room.  
  
"Thanks, uh. Again." He pauses. "I don't have any..."

"Yes, I realized that you weren't hiding a wallet on your naked body," Connor says, bored. The man flushes. It's a lot easier to read his expression like this, which is one upside, anyway. "You can go."  
  
"...Thanks. Again...again." He walks out, and Connor summarily forgets him.

Five minutes later, there's a bird at his windowsill, shouting, "FUCK! FUCK ME! FUCK THIS!"  
  
Connor frowns. "You managed to get yourself turned into a bird again?"  
  
"As soon as I walked out your door I—" The bird stops for another round of colorful cursing.

"Interesting," Connor murmurs, finally turning to face the bird fully, hand tapping methodically on his desk. "I know the curse my brother used. It shouldn't do anything like this once lifted."  
  
"Your _brother?!"_ the bird squeaks, outraged.  
  
"Yes. You tried to steal from him. Right?"  
  
"That was—" The bird falls silent, but it's a brief reprieve. "That was your brother?"  
  
Connor doesn't deign to answer the question a second time. "Which means there's something bigger at play here." He stands up suddenly, calling his cloak to him. "All right. We're going on a field trip."  
  
"Not to judge, or anything, but is this really the time to go to the aquarium or whatever the shit—"  
  
Connor rolls his eyes. "To see my brother."  
  
"The one who turned me into a bird."  
  
Connor looks at him, withering. "Has the curse turned your brain small along with your body?"  
  
"You—you fucking—!"  
  
"And your vocabulary too, it seems," Connor murmurs. "Come on. I'm curious now."  
  
"Well, as long as you're curious," the bird mumbles irritably, but he starts flying alongside Connor. As he does, Connor feels a pang in his chest. Frowning, he brings a fist there, running his knuckles along the space.  
  
It's odd, for him to feel anything there. He shouldn't be able to.  
  
After all, both him and Niles haven't had hearts in their bodies for a long time. Long enough, in fact, they've almost stopped caring they were stolen.  
  
...Almost.  
  
But he shakes off the thought. He needs both hands to make a portal.  
  
"Fuck you," says the bird, looking at the portal. "You made it seem like it would be a long walk, with your— fancy cloak shit and all that."  
  
"His house is cold," Connor says mildly. "By the way. Do you have a name?"  
  
"Of course I have a name. What, do you not have a name?"

"Of course I do. I'm Connor."  
  
"Well, why would you have a name and I wouldn't?"  
  
"You're a bird."  
  
"I'm not—hey, fuck you twice, you know I'm not actually a bird!"  
  
"You still haven't said it, though," Connor points out.  
  
"Hank." The bird settles down on his shoulder. Connor's chest feels, oddly, like it's caving in on itself. It hurts.  
  
"Hank," Connor says. "It's a good name for a bird."  
  
"Oh, okay, I got your number now. You just think you're funny."  
  
Connor smiles, and he presses down the hurt in the place where his heart used to be. "Yes. I do."  
  
"Asshole."  
  
He and the bird step forward together into the portal, leaving the sound of their conversation fading behind them.   
  
Far away, a thief wakes, and in a corner of her home, a son waits for his father.

See, Connor doesn't like to get involved. But unfortunately for him, he was involved in this from the beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (and with this i am finally caught up to present day, at least! sorry for spamming the tag while i caught up, hopefully it wasn't too bothersome for anybody. as mentioned, i have some shorter ones that weren't fit for an individual chapter. i've also skipped one or two i didn't like i think lol...if there would be any interest for whatever reason in putting the shorter ones into one chapter, i'd be happy 2 do so, let me know. they're also in that twitter moment but maybe some folks can't see that, idk?


	17. October 30th: In Which Hank Drops an Orange

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cws for this chapter: unreality, food, i think that's it

When they first meet, Hank drops an orange. The man catches it with a spell. Hank says thank you and he says it was no big deal and they both move on. It is unremarkable. Hank drives home, and home gets oddly fuzzy around the edges, and it distends and squeezes and pops and then he's back at the grocery store.  
  
When they first meet, Hank drops an orange. The man catches it with a spell. Hank stares at the man with an orange in his hand. And then it dawns on him, and he groans and says, "Aw, fuck."  
  
"Time loop?" the man he doesn't know yet asks quietly.  
  
"Or a dream."  
  
"Could be some combination of both, I guess." He slides down to sit on the floor by the produce stand, sighing. "Fuck."

Hank sits next to him, massaging the bridge of his nose.  
  
"I'm Connor," says the man.  
  
"Hank." Hank checks the color of Connor's robes. The light blue is pretty unmistakable. "King's Force?"  
  
Connor nods, eyes darting to Hank's dark blue robes. "Local police."

"Yeah, though I used to be—" Hank pauses. It doesn't really matter what he used to be. "Do you remember what you were doing before this?"  
  
"No, I don't." Connor looks around them. "Nobody's reacting to us being on the ground in the grocery store. Not a complex illusion."

"Yeah, but it's keeping us here well enough," Hank grumbles. "It let me get to my house last time. It's drawing from our own memories."  
  
"Yeah, I went to my apartment," muses Connor. "But this grocery store is the same. Or—what are you seeing?"

"Uh." Hank raises an eyebrow. "Brussels sprouts?"  
  
"No, like. Which store."  
  
"Oh. Uh, the one on Millbrew's and 5th. That pretentious health foods one."  
  
Connor is trying to hide a smile. "All right, it's the same."  
  
"And you're smiling because?"

"I go to this store."  
  
Hank snorts. "I stand by what I said."  
  
"Fair enough." Connor stands up, starts pacing. "So the spell is able to draw from our memories, but it's fixating on this particular commonality between them. What does that mean?"

"Maybe it's not strong enough to sustain two threads of thought for long. Maybe just for simplicity's sake, maybe the magic user isn't strong or their attention is divided." Hank is still on the floor, but he's throwing the discarded orange back and forth between his hands. "Or maybe," comes an irritated voice from everywhere, above and around, "You're both idiots," and as suddenly as Hank's eyes opened, they close. He wakes in bed.  
  
He remembers the scent of oranges and brown eyes, and not much else. Not that he misses it. As he walks to work a couple of weeks later a magazine catches his eye. Some pulpy thing, proclaiming I WAS VISITED BY THE GODDESS OF FATE! VISIONS OF TRUE LOVE??!   
  
He rolls his eyes. Bullshit, obviously, made to draw the eye and drain the wallet. But his eyes are more drawn inside. He never goes to this grocery store. It's one of those pretentious health food stores and everything is overpriced and has seeds or nuts or someshit. But he hasn't eaten since yesterday afternoon, and if he relies on the station to get him breakfast he'll have chips again. Not that there's anything wrong with chips, but it does feel vaguely sacrilegious to have them for breakfast with his morning coffee.  
  
How much could they hike up the price on an orange, he decides, and walks inside.  
  
Hank tosses the orange in his hand, considering the price. That's one pricey fucking orange. But he is really hungry...and the chip sacrilege...  
  
He misses a toss and drops the orange.  
  
A man nearby shoots out his hand and casts a spell that catches it in midair.  
  
They look at each other. The third time Hank and Connor meet, it is remarkable, and Hank finds himself smiling before he knows it.  
  
"Hey."  
  
"Hello," Connor says, and picks up the orange. "I feel like I remember..."  
  
"Me too."  
  
"A precognitive spell," Connor murmurs. "Odd."

"And one that can be cast on two people to forecast a future meeting." Hank rubs his chin, recalling the magazine outside. "You know, we might not be the only victims."  
  
"Oh?"   
  
"Check the pulp magazine outside."  
  
Connor nods, then smiles shyly. "Hey, uh. This might be strange, but—you make a good partner. Have so far, anyway. Would you maybe...be interested in...investigating this together?"  
  
"Yeah," Hank says, surprised to find he means it. "Yeah, that'd be cool."  
  
"Cool," Connor echoes, grinning. He tosses the orange one last time in the air, and as it spins, the peel is engraved with a set of numbers.  
  
"My number," Connor says. "I have to get to work."  
  
"Oh, shit. Me too."  
  
Hank heads to checkout alongside Connor. Connor, unexpectedly, buys a candy bar at the register. Hank buys his orange. The cashier gives him a dirty look when they see the numbers there, but ring him up.  
  
It doesn't seem quite as expensive, anymore.  
  
"See you," Connor says with a wave. Hank raises his hand. They part at the corner.  
  
The fourth time they meet, Connor will bring a box of oranges and drop them, and Hank will swear as he only spells them from hitting the floor at the last moment. Connor will laugh. Hank won't be able to be mad. They will keep investigating their 'case', but it won't go anywhere because the god of love is not on their plane waiting to be handcuffed.  
  
But eventually that won't matter, anyway.  
  
Because however they met, the real magic is in all the moments after.


	18. October 31st: In Which Connor and Hank Don Wizard Garb (For the Wrong Reasons)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cws for this chapter: ableist language and thinking, brief reference to cole's death in the past, food mention,

**I (33M) think my boyfriend (52M) genuinely thinks I'm a wizard**

I love my boyfriend. I really do; I think he's the person I'm meant to be with for the rest of my life, and in every other respect he's wonderful. But I made a joke early on in our relationship about being a wizard, and he seemed really excited about it. So I showed him some close-up magic—I had a phase in college—and he seemed convinced.  
  
That I was a wizard.  
  
I kept thinking it was a joke for a long time, but he's been keeping this up for a year, and by now I think he might really think I'm a genuine wizard. He's also weirdly cagey about it? Like, if I talk about 'being a wizard' with friends—not that I want to bring this thing up to them often, whatever it is—he gets really panicked and says I shouldn't be saying anything (???). He even took me aside once and said he was honored I told him but that I needed to remember it should be a secret from the world (???!?!?!)  
  
I love him. I still think he's the one for me. He's wonderful and sweet and...sane...? other than this. But he thinks I'm a wizard. What do I do about this? How do I talk to him about this? It seems to make him so happy that I'm...that. I don't want to take that away from him, but, like...I'm not a wizard.  
  
tl;dr I made a joke about being a wizard, bf took it seriously, I don't know how to tell him the truth

* * *

  
  
Connor finishes the post and hovers over the submit button, but at the last minute, he falters. Hank really is perfect in every other way. He knows if he posts this, people will probably mock Hank—call him crazy, deluded. Hank doesn't deserve that, even if Connor feels trapped in this weird joke with nowhere to go.  
  
But on the other hand...  
  
Connor chews on his lip. He can't trust any of his friends to give him advice on this, and they're mostly Hank's friends, too. He doesn't want Hank embarrassed by the people he knows and loves either.  
  
He presses submit and looks away from the computer. He can always delete it if people aren't being nice enough.  
  
(Connor tries not to think about screenshots. God, if this went viral...)

He wakes up to an absurd amount of comments on the post and winces. Shit. Shit, this really was the wrong idea.  
  
Wading through some of the comments, it seems that there are a number of people who are sympathetic to him. Some are even sympathetic to Hank. Unfortunately, it's mostly in a gross 'aw the poor guy needs help' kind of way, which...Connor mashes the heel of his palm into his eyes. He hates that.  
  
He also hates the people telling him to just break up and cut his losses. He really did just want to know how to bring it up. A few comments here and there do broach that subject. They tell him to be honest, or to be gentle about it. The one he likes the most says he should be straightforward, but find a way to ease into the subject first.  
  
Connor considers his options on that front. There's not really many ways to subtly bring up wizards. 'So, I was reading a book about wizards! Fictional wizards!' 'I saw a movie the other day...it had, uh...wizards. The CG was. Convincing.'  
  
Later in the day, though, his coworker asks him if he has any plans for Halloween. And that's when Connor gets it.  
  
A wizard costume. He'll look ridiculous, but maybe that'll help. It'll seem like a nod to the joke and then later in the evening Connor can ease into the subject and they can talk about the whole mess. Connor is feeling pretty confident, if a bit nervous, until Hank opens his door.  
  
He wasn't even expecting Hank to dress up. They're mostly just planning on having a casual evening in, watching a Halloween-themed movie, handing out candy to the kids who come by. But Hank is dressed up.  
  
Specifically, he is dressed up as a wizard.  
  
Connor's face goes all pinched as he tries to fake a smile, all the while wondering What The Fuck, What The Fuck, How Far Down Does This Wizard Shit Go.  
  
Way further than he expected, apparently. Even odder is that Hank's face has gone equally pinched while he looks at Connor.  
  
So.  
  
That's, uh, strange. Seeing as how Hank seems to...enjoy...the wizard shit.  
  
But Connor loves his boyfriend, so he focuses on that and summons a real smile. "Weird coincidence, huh?"

Hank's laugh is hollow. "Sure is. Wanna know another weird coincidence?"  
  
Please let this not be about wizards. "Absolutely."  
  
"This pizza is here and it's your favorite and it's just been delivered. Wow."  
  
Connor laughs, relaxing. Hank's a good boyfriend. Hank is the man he loves. He does considerate stuff like ordering pizza timed with Connor's arrival just so he won't have to wait but it'll still be warm when he gets here. He's a good boyfriend.

Connor reminds himself of this when he hugs Hank and it produces the sickening sound of fake silk against fake silk from their costume robes, and when their fake beards nearly tangle together. He doesn't think about it much when they both pull down their fake beards to eat their pizza, when they relax against the couch to watch some shitty monster movie and Hank midway through takes off his robe because it's 'too fuckin' hot'. It might be in the back of his mind. But other than that, this is just like every casual movie night they've had together, if interspersed with the occasional ringing of the bell to answer to children demanding candy.  
  
(That's Connor's job. Hank doesn't...like it. Connor understands, as much as he can.)

But when the bell ringing dies down, when they're halfway through the third movie but not paying attention, the uneasy atmosphere comes back.  
  
Connor knows he has to say something. Maybe Hank's caught on; maybe that's why he's fidgeting over there. "Fuckin' elastic," he mumbles, "Don't even know why I bother when I have a beard of my own," as he takes the beard off and lays it festively over the arm of the couch.  
  
"Hank," Connor says.  
  
The way Hank reacts, it's almost like he's a kid expecting punishment. "So. You know...how I'm wearing a wizard costume?"  
  
God, he's been an idiot. Thinking this would make it any easier. He scrunches a cartoony shooting star into a bunch of fabric and chews on his lip again.  
  
"Yeah?" Hank says, sounding even more nervous. "Well...it's because...I had something to talk to you about. Something I've been thinking about. Not anything...bad...but just something I wanted to discuss."  
  
Hank winces, shrinking into the back of the couch, or trying to. "Connor—"

"Not something about our relationship, just—something that you—"  
  
"Connor, there's something I should tell you," Hank says, all in a rush, like a balloon expelling air. "I'm a wizard too."  
  
Connor blinks.  
  
"I'm sorry I didn't tell you earlier, I should have, but—"

Oh, God.  
  
So the wizard shit goes as deep as it can go.  
  
Oh, _God._  
  
Connor closes his eyes.  
  
"—you know how the Society is about revealing that and it's been drilled into me all my life and—God, it's even worse knowing you risked everything so early in our relationship but—"

"Hank."  
  
"I was just scared, and I didn't know how to broach the subject, and I thought this stupid fucking wizard costume would help but it didn't—"  
  
"Hank, please."  
  
"And now you're looking at me like you're disappointed and sad and—I swear to you I love you. I do."

"I love you so much. And—"  
  
"Hank, please _stop_."  
  
Hank stops. He looks crestfallen. Connor wants to hug it out of him, but he's not sure he can, right now.  
  
"Hank, what do you think I was going to tell you?"  
  
Hank pauses. "That you knew?"  
  
"No. I was going to say."

Connor takes in a breath, holds it, lets it out when he can't think anymore.  
  
"I was going to say that the joke could stop. That I'm not a wizard, and I hoped we both knew that, because I hoped we both knew wizards weren't real."  
  
Hank's mouth opens, then closes.

"Shit," he finally says. "Oh, shit."  
  
"Hank—look, it's okay, it's not—it's not like I think you're, I mean. Crazy, or anything?"  
  
"Fuck," Hank murmurs, eyes wide.  
  
"And I love you too, and I want to be with you, but you have to realize—"

"So you're—all the times you made shit disappear and—" Hank sucks in a breath. "That was the mundane kind?"  
  
Connor isn't sure if he should be offended or not. "Mundane?"  
  
"You were just going along with a joke," Hank says, on the edge of a hysterical laugh. "God."

"Hank, it's _fine—_"  
  
"The thing is," Hank says. "The thing is, I love you too, even if that kind of pisses me off."  
  
Connor sighs. "It wasn't—it wasn't like that, Hank, but..."  
  
"And even if I'm going to get fined so hard for this," Hank says, eyebrows creasing.

And with that, Hank whispers a few words under his breath, and their couch is in the sky.  
  
Flying.  
  
The couch...is flying.  
  
Connor thinks he might faint. Or maybe he has? Maybe he is presently fainted.  
  
"Look, I don't usually do this showy shit."

"Partially because it's fucking _illegal_. But also because, like, why bother."  
  
Connor does not think he can respond, because the couch is flying, and he is potentially fainted, and also potentially dead? That is also an option.  
  
"But it worked for that Aladdin dude—"

"You made our couch fly because of a fucking Disney movie?!" Connor hisses with what little remaining breath he has left.  
  
Hank has the audacity to lie back and cross his legs like a king or something. "I can show you the world, baby."

Connor picks up Hank's discarded shitty wizard robe from between them and ineffectually hits him with it. "What the fuck! What the fuck, what the fuck, what the—"  
  
Hank is starting to look at least a little embarrassed. "I wanted you to believe me! Talkin' bout—you don't think I'm crazy but you hope I realize—God, Con, I never realized you didn't know this shit all along. Otherwise I..." He huffs out air, looking up at the sky, which continues to be much closer than it should be. "I don't know if I ever woulda told you."

On principle, Connor frowns. "This is important to you?"  
  
"I mean, yeah."  
  
"But you never would have told me? What, even when I move in? Even when we get married?"  
  
A pleased kind of flush grows on Hank's face, or maybe it's the altitude. "When?"  
  
"Can you get this couch down!"

Hank gets the couch down, back to the living room. Connor stomps on the ground with wild eyes, looks around like he's not sure the living room is real.  
  
"It's the real thing, Con," Hank mumbles. "Sorry, okay? I needed to do something you couldn't do with your—your stuff."

"So you flew me to the fucking sky."  
  
"Yeah." He sighs. "Sorry."  
  
Connor puts his head between his knees and takes a deep breath, then another, then another.  
  
"Well, I put a post about you on Reddit," he finally says. "So I guess we're probably even. Kind of."

"Huh?"  
  
"Yeah, I wanted advice for how to tell you the wizard thing needed to stop."  
  
Hank hums thoughtfully. "I mean, I guess if I were any other guy who wasn't a wizard...like, fair."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"So...then...are we..."  
  
"For future reference, I'm afraid of heights."

Hank blanches. "Oh. I'm...I'm really sorry then."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
Connor still refuses to look at him for another moment, but eventually he sighs, straightens up.  
  
"But to answer the question you were asking before...yeah. We're cool. Or will be."

Hank's smile is the most sincere it's been all evening, and his kiss even more so. Connor sleeps at his house that night, and when he wakes up, Hank summons him waffles out of thin air.  
  
Which is much more the kind of magic he prefers. Not that he'd ever have thought he'd have a preference.  
  
Also the following morning: the top trending post on Reddit is a photo of a suspiciously couch-shaped UFO.  
  
Also the following morning: a child goes into their backyard to find an elastic fake beard. But Connor and Hank don't know about either of those things, and they don't really care in the first place. It's the first of November, Hank is a wizard, and Connor is his boyfriend, and they love each other.  
  
It's almost like magic, how those things work out, sometimes.

(Hank asks him if it would be gauche to write a post that says '33M 52M nevermind'.  
  
"It would be like flying a couch to a sky to prove you're a wizard," Connor says over his waffles.  
  
"So no?"  
  
"So no."  
  
Reddit, too, remains blissfully unaware in the end.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anddd this is the last! happy halloween, happy wizardtober, and i hope this has been on the end of 'enjoyable' and not on the end of 'obnoxious and troublingly overfocused on one subject' lol

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! the moment compiling all of these on twitter can be found [here](https://twitter.com/i/moments/1180632940134457344?s=13) and my twitter as a whole is at [@boringbibs](https://twitter.com/boringbibs). sometimes i do ridiculous shit like this. i am always a ridiculous person


End file.
